


Tenderness

by LouisUnderscoreTomlinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 16-Year-Old Harry, 18-Year-Old Louis, Angst, Attempted Murder, Blood, Choking, Crazy, Death, Horror, Killing, Love, M/M, Murderer, Mystery, Psycho, Psychopath, Self-Harm, Serial Killer Louis, Sins, Stabbing, Thriller, Unrequited Love, larrystylinson, lourry, strangle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouisUnderscoreTomlinson/pseuds/LouisUnderscoreTomlinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has just been released from juvenile detention. Now he's looking for some tenderness- tenderness he finds in caressing and killing innocent girls and boys.</p><p>Harry has run away from home again. He is also looking for tenderness- tenderness that is about more than just sex, tenderness he finds in Louis.</p><p>Together, they begin a harrowing journey that will either save or destroy them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> My name is Nadine and this is my first fanfiction , I hope you guys read it and of course like it. If you have something to say please feel free to comment. The first few chapters will be just about Harry's life. Again you have all the warnings so please if you can't stand the blood , sex , abuse , rejection , homosexuality and other don't read and don't complain. Have a nice read :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A whole lot about Harry and nobody else.

Me , I get fixated on something and I can't help myself. Sometimes it's nice and I let myself drift to see what will happen. Like with Throb.  Sometimes it's not so nice, but I still have to go with it and can do nothing to stop. That's the scary part, when it's not nice at all. But when it's nice, it's scary. Anything that takes over your life is scary, although there can be pleasure in it.

With Throb, it was nice in the beginning, the music, and his voice on the CDs and, of course, the words, and the way he sang them, his voice rough, like gravel in his throat, but the words, thrilling:

_Pluck my heart_

_From my flesh_

_And eat it . . ._

Dark music, I call it. Music that speaks to me. Dark and black from the pits of night:

_Call my name_

_From the grave_

_Of your rotting love_

I had to listen hard to make out the words,  closing my eyes,  pressing  the earphones tight against my ears, thinking at first that he sang _rotten love_ instead of _rotting love,_ which is another thing altogether.

Anyway, it was nice sitting in the library next to the CD player, the earphones on, people coming and going at the circulation desk and me listening, like on a private island in the middle of all that activity, and I would close my eyes and listen to him, his voice filling my ears and the inside of my head:

_A hole in my mouth_

_To match the hole in my heart_

_Through which your love howls_

I didn't get fixated on Throb until I saw the actual hole in his mouth on _Entertainment Tonight,_ the missing tooth, his spiky hair the color of salmon, his freckles and that terrible clown outfit: baggy pants and green plaid suspenders and no shirt, his nipples like old pennies stuck on his chest. But most of all that missing tooth, like a black cave in his mouth. And that was when I got fixated on him, staring at the black cave and knowing that I had to press my lips against his lips and put my tongue through that hole in his mouth.

I copped the CD at Aud-Vid Land at the mall even though the CD player at home is broken, like everything else in the place. I didn't exactly cop the CD, which would be impossible because of the security gate, but I didn't pay for it, either. There's this guy, the assistant manager, who's like forty years old, and he opens the door of the stockroom and I slip inside and wait for him. He likes to look at me. I close my eyes. He tells me to stand this way, then that way. I hear him breathing. Finally, he says, „Okay“ . I open my eyes but do not enjoy looking at him. His complexion is terrible, and he wears bright yellow socks.

At home I remove the CD and look at Throb's face spread across the entire booklet, which opens out like an accordion. I Scotch - tape it to the wall, after taking down the picture of me and my mother posing in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Lincoln is my favorite president. I feel bad for him because he looks so depressed all the time and his face is on the penny, the cheapest coin of all.

Des  watches me from the doorway.

„Harry ,“ he says. „Your mother's gonna feel bad, taking that picture down.“

„I'll put it up someplace else,“ I tell him, stepping back to look at Throb there on my wall, with the hole in his mouth.

Des is not like some of the others my mother brings home. He's been with us for, like, six months. He doesn't use bad language and works steady, the night shift at Murdock's Tool and Die. He drinks too much sometimes, which makes him fall asleep all over the place, which is a nice change from Jonathan, who got mean and nasty when he drank and hit my mother once in a while.

Des  looks at me as I look at Throb's picture. I can f _eel_ him looking at me, something he's been doing lately. He also rubs close to me when he meets me in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. It's nice to have him look at me like that but I don't want to do anything to hurt my mother, even though she's a pain in the ass sometimes.  She has enough problems. She was a beauty but lately she seems to be fading right before my eyes. I see the grooves in her face where her makeup cakes, and the eyedrops don't always obliterate the red anymore. She's also beginning to sag. I caught sight of her getting out of the shower one night and was surprised to see her drooping. She was always proud of her figure and says that was her best gift to me, a good figure, although we both have to worry about gaining weight.

Des comes and stands beside me in front of the picture. We are alone in the house, my mother at work for the lunchtime rush at Timson's. It's hot, early June, and heat  seems to be radiating out of him, his arm pressing against my arm and the perspiration, like, gluing us together. I hear his sharp intake of breath, or maybe it's my own. Suddenly his arm is around me and he's caressing me on top and I lean against him. His aftershave lotion is sharp and spicy in my nostrils and his hand feels good, tender, and I want him to continue but I pull away from him, thinking of my mother.

He removes his hand and says, „S-sory,“ stammering a bit, and I don't say anything, just stand there feeling depressed. I feel depressed because I know that if Des stays- and my mother wants him to stay, permanently, maybe- then I have to leave. Again.

The next day I read in the newspaper that Throb will be appearing this weekend at the Con-Center in Wickburg, where we used to live, and my fixation intensifies. Wickburg is down in Massachusetts, about a hundred miles from this stupid little town where we've been living for a year and a half, and I'm convinced that Wickburg is my destination and my fate and the place where I will place my tongue in the black hole in Throb's mouth, leaving Des and my mother to live happily ever after.

 _Happily ever after_ sounds like a fairy tale but my mother believes in fairy tales, happy endings and rainbows. She always thinks tomorrow will be better than today, and believes only the good weather forecasts, never the bad. She drives me crazy repeating stuff, like if you get handed a lemon, make lemonade, or it's always darkest just before dawn. Once, early in the morning, rain pelting the windows, she sat at the kitchen table, pressing an ice bag against a black eye she received from Jonathan. She looked up brightly from the newspaper on table and said, „Listen to this, Harry , my horoscope: 'Brightness everywhere, keep up the good work, your talents will be recognized.' Isn't that grand?“

The ice bag slipped down a bit and I saw the bruise, ugly and purple, near her eye.

„What's the matter?“ she asked. „You look as if you're going to cry.“

„I think i'm coming down with a cold,“ I said. But I wasn't coming down with a cold.

My mother is a waitress. A professional, proud of it. Always shows up on time, whether she has hangover or not. Knows the proper way to hold a tray above her shoulder. Knows when the customer wants the check, whether the soup is not hot enough or the steak well done and not medium as requested.

She has bad luck with men. Always picks the wrong guy except in one or two cases, like Des, for instance, and my father, who she says was kind and gentle but without any luck at all, hit by a car on a rainy night when I was two years old. I don't remember him at all. I have never seen a picture of him, not even a wedding picture. „It all happened on the run,“ my mother said. Which is the way things always happen with her.

On the run. Maybe that's the story of my mother's life and mine, too. Moving from place to place all the time. Always looking for a better job or following somebody she met who makes promises that are always broken. Like Jonathan Dickson , who she followed from Wickburg to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where he abandoned her while she was in the hospital. She went to the hospital emergency room after he beat her up that time. I sat with her in the waiting room watching the small lump on her forehead actually grow into a size of an egg.

She told the doctor she walked into a door after getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

„How about this?“ the doctor asked, pointing to the bruise on her arm.

„I bruise easy,“ my mother said. „My skin is sensitive.“

The doctor looked at me and I looked away.

„Are you alright?“ he asked, touching my shoulder with a gentle hand.

I nodded. Jonathan never touched me. Touched my mother, his hands everywhere and half-undressing her and himself, too, in front of me while my mother whispered, „Not here, not in front of the kid,“ but he went on anyway.

Anyway, Jonathan  was gone when we returned from the hospital. My mother said, „He was afraid, the bastard, that I was going to turn him in.“ The apartment belonged to Jonathan, rent was paid for the next month, but we left anyway, caught a bus to Manchester, where my mother knew someone who ran an all-night diner and would give her a job maybe. Then from Manchester to this town, my mother apologizing all over the place as usual for making us move so much, changing schools.

„Lucky you're so smart,“ she says all the time. „Smarter than your dumb mother...“

„You're not so dumb,“ I tell her. „You're a very good waitress. You never get fired. You always quit...“

„I worry about you.“ My mother says this all the time, too. Last week she said it again and added, „Look at you, sixteen years old. I can't believe it....“

What she means is that she can't believe that she's thirty-seven.

„I always think of myself first,“ she says. „I'm not a very good mother, Harry.“

„You're a very good mother,“ I tell her. It doesn't cost anything to say that, and it makes her feel good.

„I wonder what will happen to you in that terrible world out there,“ she says. Her optimism deserts her now and then, when there's nothing to drink in the house and no money to buy any.

She doesn't know, of course, what has already happened to me. She still thinks I am a virgin and I guess I am. Technically, that is. I mean, I have had my moments with girls and other boys in the rear seats at Cinema 1 and 2 at the mall, and in the backseats of cars and with some others, like the CD guy, but never all the way.

I have been trying to figure out what love is and the difference between sex and love and that other thing, lust. I think one of my teachers was in love with me, but she never touched me. Mrs. Sinclair. She had told me that I had a beautiful spirit, that I had a talent for writing and should keep a journal, and her eyes on me made my legs quiver, all the longing in her eyes and maybe sadness, too. I used to linger after school outside her classroom. She discovered me there one afternoon as she came through the doorway and we almost bumped into each other. She broke into a smile but stepped back right away, the smile wiped away like erasing a scribble on a blackboard, and she looked worried and concerned, glancing around.

„Hi, Mrs. Sinclair,“ I said, so glad to be with her alone in the corridor, my heart dancing.

She was not pretty, eyes deep in their sockets, hair always askew, harsh lines in her cheeks. I always wondered whether she got enough sleep.

She blushed and coughed there in the corridor, slapping her purse against her hip and stammering something I couldn't understand. But I saw the longing in her eyes and the pain there, too.

„Oh, Harold,“ she said, saying that name I hated – I was named for my mother's favorite uncle – thank God for nicknames.

I wanted to take her hand and place it on me and tell her not to be afraid, but instead we just looked at each other, and she turned away from me, looking at me over her shoulder, such sadness in her eyes, still looking at me as she turned the corner, taking with her all my longings and maybe her longings, too.

I wondered again what those longings were. Yet what I think I want most of all is someone who would be tender with me.

Mrs. Sinclair once asked the class to make a list of the ten most beautiful words in the English language, and the only word that really seemed beautiful to me was _tenderness._


	2. Nothing to Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's hitchhiking experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No judging, guys. In next chapter Louis will appear, but next chapter comes out in 2 weeks. I hope at least some of you like this fic so far and will continue reading, thank you in advance.

I am on my way. With my backpack and Reeboks and my cutoff jeans. It's a beautiful June morning, everything green by the roadside. The bus from Hookset to Garville dropped me near Route 2, and I am standing by the side of the road hitching to Wickburg. I have hitched all over the place. Time I got mad at my mother, I would take off and hitch someplace. Like taking a lottery ticket. I always dreamed of a great – looking guy stopping and picking me up and telling me he's heading for California via the Rocky Mountains and I say let's go and he's also kind and gentle and we drive all over the USA through small towns and big cities. But it never happens that way.

There's a pause between passing cars, the highway empty, and the whole world seems empty suddenly and I want to go home and have Des be tender with me. Or somebody.

Forget it, I tell myself.

I left my mother a note. Not long one. _Going away for a while, Mom. Don't worry. I'll be staying with my friends in Wickburg, Sam and Roby._

There are no friends in Wickburg. I made them up. She actually believes they exist, that I visit them when I take off. I wonder if she only pretends to believe and this eases her conscience for letting me go and not calling the cops to find me. Or is it cruel to think of her like that ? Anyway, I pretend that I recieve letters from Sam and Roby. She never sees the letters, of course, because there are no letters. I pick a day when she's not at home at the time the mail arrives. When she arrives home and asks, „Any good mail today ?“ (meaning letters without windows, because windows mean bills), I tell her, „Yes, Sam  wrote to me.“ And my mother drifts away, looking for a drink as she always does when she arrives home, either from work or shopping or maybe a walk around the block.

I left the note where she will find it easily. I am glad this time that she won't be alone, that she has Des with her now.

I am always careful when I hitch. Standing on Route 2 at the junction of Interstate 190, which goes to Wickburg thirty-five miles away, I am aware of the rotten things that can happen.

I brace myself against the traffic, especially the big trucks that almost suck me down and under, between the axles, with the _whoosh_ of their passing.

Finally a small red car stops and I run to it. A guy is alone in the car. He is sleek and elegant. The smell of aftershave emerges from the car as the window slides down. A briefcase is on the front seat. He smiles, a fake salesman smile, and his hand is between his legs. „Hello there, sweetheart,“ he says. „Jump in.“

„Take off, sicko,“ I tell him.

Meanness shoots out of his eyes and the window flashes up, almost catching my hand, and the car peels off, spitting up a cloud of dust.

Cars keep passing by and I don't always stick out my thumb. I see them approaching and try to figure out what kind of person is driving. I skip sport cars, of course, and ignore pickup trucks. If I see something like dice dangling above the windshield, I also skip that one. Finally, a blue van approaches, dusty, needing a good wash. The handle of what is probably a lawn mower sticks out of the side window. I stick out my thumb, arrange what I hope is a pleasant expression on my face. The van doesn't stop. I shrug and turn away but something makes me turn back. The van is backing up, approaching me in reverse.

As I open the door and slip in, the driver squints at me, worry lines creasing his forehead. I figure he's in his middle thirties. He is nice looking, neat. He's wearing a blue sport shirt open at neck. His eyes, too, are green.

I settle into the seat, shifting my backpack to the floor at my feet, and turn to see him looking doubtful about my presence. I want to ask him what's the matter but I know what's the matter.

„Going to Providence ?“ I ask. I never tell them my real destination and I know this man with his lawn mower is not going all the way to Providence.

„Monument,“ he says. „Is that far enough ?“ Then: „I never did this before. I mean, this is something I never do, pick up a hitchhiker.“

Especially a young boy.

„I'm glad you did,“ I tell him. I smile at him. I am aware of my shorts and move my legs.

He looks at me for a long moment. He is trying not to look at my legs, but he looks anyway. Quickly, then away. As the car begins to move, he asks, „Why are you going to Providence ?“ Then immediately: „I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry.“

I am not lonesome anymore. He seems gentle, someone who would be tender. I spread my legs a little more and sigh, my shoulders at attention, knowing what this does to my top.

A breeze drifts through the open window in the rear of the car. Perspiration dampens his forehead. He smiles at me, an uncertain smile.

We are in the country, long fields on either side of the highway, trees shimmering in the heat, bushes heavy at the side of the road. His knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel. His Adam's apple jiggles as he swallows.

„Would you like to kiss me ?“ I ask, the words popping out unexpectedly. Although I think it would be nice to be kissed and held by him.

I am surprised to see a grownup person blush. His hands, trembling, leave the steering wheel for a wild moment and the car swerves. He grabs the wheel again.

He opens his mouth to speak but no words come out.

„You seem very nice,“ I say. Much nicer than the CD guy. „And the way you look at me, I think you'd like to kiss me. Make out a little.“

I know this about him: he has maybe dreamed about something like this – otherwise, why did he stop to pick me up? – and I am his dream come true. I also know that I can handle him: that gentleness about him.

„Why don't you pull over?“ I say. „Seems like a lot of places we can stop.“ The CD guy only gave me CDs and videos. Maybe this man can give me more. I need all the money I can get if I'm going to stay away.

„Why ?“ he asks desperately, his voice a whisper, his eyes agonizing.

„Because I like you,“ I say. Then : „And maybe you could help me out a little. Like, say, twenty dollars...“

He keeps his eyes on the road. A vein leaps in his temple, seems about to burst. This is the moment when he will decide what to do. I don't move. I don't do anything with my legs or my top. I realize I'm holding a breath.

„I never did anything like this before,“ he says. „I know, I know.“ Like he's the young person and I'm the old one.

He pulls into a spot by the side of the road, eases into a place that's hidden from passing cars. The handle of the lawn mower bumps against the window glass as we stop.

He reaches for me, eyes closed, and I go toward him, letting him have me, and he kisses my cheeks and throat and his hands move over my body. He makes a funny moaning sound when he touches my ass and his hand remains there, caressing. I begin to drift with it all, letting him squeeze and caress, and he's not rough at all, his fingers trembling sometimes. I open my mouth to him and he moans again as he kisses me and he is all over me now, and I let him continue because he is tender with his touch. His breathing fast, too, gasping as he takes his lips away, his heart throbbing against me, and suddenly he shudders like an earthquake throughout his body and I know he is finished. He curles up on the seat beside me, his head turned away.

And he's, like, crying.

I have never seen a grown up man cry before. I touch his shoulder and he looks at me and his face makes me angry at myself because it's the saddest face in the world and I made him sad. He looks down and sees my wrists.

„What's that ?“ he says, sniffling, the way little kids do when the tears stop but the hurt goes on.

„A dog bit me there. A wild bull terrier.“

If you're going to lie, you have to be specific, not vague. Words are very important. Like with _bull terrier._ Which sounds authentic even though I haven't the slightest notion what a bull terrier looks like. In the fifth grade, old Mr. Stuyvesant told me about lying. He was a handyman at the project and would put me on his lap and tell me lots of good stuff. His touch was always gentle.

„Twenty dollars,“ I say, holding out my hand, trying to ignore his wet cheeks and trying also to ignore the surge of guilt within me.

He wipes his cheeks with a frayed Kleenex he pulls out of his pocket. He takes out his wallet and removes a twenty-dollar bill and a ten-dollar bill and places them in my hand.

A tip. A ten-dollar tip, for crying out loud.

„I'm sorry,“ he says. „I ...“

„I know,“ I say. „You never did this before.“ But I say it sincerely and not sacrastically, because I believe him. I almost ask him about his wife and children. I am sure he has a nice wife and maybe three children, two girls and a boy,  the oldest one about my age. Maybe that's why he cried afterward.

He gets prepared to drive away again and puts his wallet in his pocket, but it slips out and wedges in the small space between the front seats. As he pulls out into the highway, I slowly reach out my hand and pick up the wallet, moving my body all around and opening my legs again just in case he looks my way. I slip the wallet into my pocket.

We drive in silence, his eyes fastened on the road ahead, and I don't say anything, nothing I can say to make him feel better.

He lets me off on the outskirts of Monument. As I open the door to leave, he touches my shoulder, then draws his hand back quickly. I look at him, and the sorrow is gone from his eyes now and I see in them what I saw before. He wants me to get back in.

I shake my head.

„I'm sorry,“ he says. „It's been nice meeting you,“ I tell him, thinking of his wallet in my pocket.

Sometimes I am a real bitch.

* * *

 

His wallet contains two twenty-dollar bills and three ones. Forty-three dollars. He must have just drawn money from an ATM: the bills are clean and crisp. Combined with my own thirty-three dollars gives me a grand total of, what? Seventy-six. Plus change.

From one compartment I remove his driver's license. His name is Richard C. White. His date of birth is 5 – 23 – 58. His height is 5 – 9. His sex, of course is M. He lives at 38 Humberton Road, Monument. His picture is not very flattering.

This compartment also holds his Blue Cross/Blue Shield card with his identification number, an ATM card from Wachusett Savings, a tuckedaway ten-dollar bill (for emergencies?) folded between two credit cards, VISA and MasterCard.

The other compartment contains two photographs. One picture shows a blond girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, squinting at the camera as if the sun is hurting her eyes. She's not very pretty. On the back of the photo is her name, Kylie, no date. She is in the other picture, too, posing with a boy who is two or three years younger. He's identified on the back as Carl. The girl is nice looking in this picture, blond hair shining and a big smile on her face. Carl looks solemn, as if he'd rather be out somewhere playing baseball.

I am sitting on a log by the side of the highway protected from a view by some bushes. I hear the traffic going by as I study the stuff in the wallet. I put it all back and sit still, not looking at anything in particular.

This is not the first time I have stolen something, but it's the first time that I have stolen from a person, someone with a name. Richard C. White, a man with a family. I wonder why he didn't carry a picture of his wife. Maybe he's divorced. Maybe she's dead. Or maybe she held the camera, which is why she isn't in the picture – I'd like to think that. Anyway, stealing from Richard White is different from stealing from an impersonal space like a store. Stealing from a store doesn't make you feel too bad afterward, not like how I feel knowing that Richard White has lost not only his money but his credit cards and driver's license , and all the trouble he faces getting new ones. Plus explaining to his wife how he lost his wallet and having to lie about it. Or maybe this will teach him a lesson, not to pick up young boys in his car and pay them to let him touch and hold them. I remember how he cried afterward. I decide that when I get to Wickburg I will get an envelope and stamps and mail his credit cards and his license and the pictures, too, back to him


	3. Original Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „Look down on me, you will see a fool.  
> Look up at me, you will see your Lord.  
> Look straight at me, you will see yourself.“ - Charles Manson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I just wanted to inform you that I'm finally on holidays, meaning I'll have some more god damn time for this, and I'll be able to re-do this mess of chapters I have already made. Also I already started writing new chapters and I'll be updating them quicker and preferably without spelling mistakes. I hope you will still read this fic, and that you will like it, and that you will leave me some feedback so I can know what you think. Happy New Year :)

I finally reached Wickburg by late afternoon. I walked most of the way, trudging along 190, not sticking out my thumb, tired of judging what kind of  car or driver was approaching. I was not in the mood for more adventures on the road.

Finally, a car pulled up. I looked at it suspiciously but saw the handicapped license plate. A woman with gray hair opened the passenger door and asked me if I wanted a lift. That's what she called it: a lift. I glanced into the car and saw the driver, who also had gray hair. There were all kinds of gadgets attached to the steering wheel. Their voices were kindly. They both had mild gray eyes. The driver looked cheerful, despite all the gadgets on the steering wheel. I couldn't see his legs. „You look bushed,“ the woman said. „Like you need to sit back and rest awhile...“

That's what she said: _bushed._

I guess she meant I looked tired. Which I was, tired and hot, my underarms moist.

The man turned on the radio as we pulled away. Country music filled the air, a sad song about somebody's lost love dancing in a bar. I tried to block out the music and call to mind the bang and boom of Throb and those words of his:

_Eat my heart_

_Chew it hard_

_Swallow my soul, too._

I fell asleep like falling into a deep well with quiet waters lapping at my bonese as they melted. They let me off at Main and Madison in downtown Wickburg, three blocks from the ConCenter. I felt bad because I had slept most of the way and barely talked to them.

„Thank you,“ I called after them as they drove away.

I don't think they heard me. And I instantly forget all about them as I looked up at a billboard on the roof of a blank building showing a huge picture of Throb in his crazy costume an that black hole in his mouth.

I am standing in the alley between the Marriott and the Brice office building, and I'm looking at the doorway in the wall of the Marriott that does not look like a doorway. It's a secret doorway used by the superstars to escape from the crowds at the front and rear entrances of the hotel so that they can make their way unobserved to the ConCenter a block away.

The area around the Marriott is jammed with fans along with police and security people, and I find a quiet spot near the Dumpster in the alley. I have taken skinny jeans from my backpack. A breeze stirs the debris in the alley but brings no relief from the evening heat. In fact, the breeze stirs up the smell of garbage from the Dumpster and something decaying inside. I fix my eyes on the secret doorway.

Suddenly, out he comes: Throb. Four or five people, like bodyguards, emerging with him. He's dressed in his crazy costume, Sunkist hair and baggy pants, no shirt, Day-Glo green suspenders, plus something new: earrings dangling from his nipples. He yawns, actually yawns, and I see the hole in his mouth and this sends me into action.

I lunge across the alley, covering the few feet between us like a bowling ball, knocking aside the bodyguards, and I am directly in front of him. His eyes widen in disbelief and his eyes are mean, green, and red streaked. They eat into me, those eyes.

His bodyguards are still recovering from my surprise attack, not quite sure what to do, but I know what I must do. I must kiss him. More than that, I must put my tongue in that hole in his mouth and end this fixation. I reach out and cup his face in my hands and plant this monstrous kiss on his mouth, my lips devouring his mouth, my tongue slipping between his lips, tasting whiskey and something else on his breath. My tongue is between his teeth in that hole and now the bodyguards are pulling at me and yelling, but Throb is transfixed as if hypnotized. I tear myself away from the groping hands and run, my backpack bouncing, spitting out the taste of him as I go. I streak into the crowd at the mouth of the alley as the crowd surges forward, spotting Throb finally. I am still spitting out the taste of him as I lose myself in the jostling, bustling crowd, knowing that my fixation is over and I can go on with life, whatever that life will be.

I have to think about my options now, what I will do tonight and where to stay, and I slip into the Wickburg Diner, all stainless steel and glass, which looks like a railroad dining car, a place I used to go when my mother and I lived in Wickburg.

I order coffee and a hamburger and sit in the booth, the plastic covering cool on my back and air-conditioning a nice cold stream on my shoulders.

A television set hangs from the ceiling, and I try to block out the voices and pictures as I wait for the food. I am not really hungry but my stomach is empty and I feel the need to nourish myself. The smell of fried food sizzles in the air, always a lonesome smell to me, not homey like pies being baked or a roast in the oven, which my mother always cooks when we first settle into a new place but never late.

Two girls sit in the next booth, giggling and laughing and then whispering to each other. They are not really girls, and I know who they are. Not their names, of course, but _what_ they are. They're like the girls I have seen cruising the streets, carrying cheap plastic handbags, something sad about them despite the laughing and the makeup. The one facing me has deep, dark eyes, and the other is a blonde.

I look up at the television set but see only images and hear only sound. I block out the reset. I am good at this, blocking out things I don't want to acknowledge, like lying awake in my room at night while Des and my mother are in the next room and I remove my thoughts, my ears from what's going on.

But the television intrudes now, a face flashing on the screen that brings me back to here and now. I know that face. An offscreen voice reaches my ears:  „... being set free Friday. The state cannot hold him any longer and thus a murderer will be loose among us...“

Now a scene outside a prison, a crowd, and a guy emerging from a police cruiser, being rushed into a courthouse. The guy turns and faces camera. I see his eyes, eyes that I remember , and the way his lips curl into a smile but a smile like no other smile in the world. The announcer's voice continues.

„....shown arriving at the Polk County Courthouse for his final appearance.... has remained silent throughout his incarceration after having been found guilty by the juvenile court judge of two counts of murder....“

„I wouldn't mind being incarcerated with him,“ the blonde in the next booth says.

„But he's a murderer,“ the dark-eyed girl says.

„What a way to die,“ the first one responds.

Now his face is on the screen again, close up, those eyes staring at the camera as if staring at nobody and nothing and then breaking into a sudden, startling smile. That smile does it, and I remember that smile from a faraway day when my mother and I were living here in Wickburg and how those eyes looked at me and I remember, too, the sound of his voice: „Happy birthday.“ That's what he said to me, the words echoing now in my mind. I hear a small moan and know immediately that it is me who has moaned because I am fixated again, on him, so soon, too soon, after Throb. But nothing I can do about it.

The TV voice again: „Louis Tomlinson has remained silent about his future plans but rumors indicate he will be staying with his aunt in Wickburg, Massachusetts, and already neighbors are protesting a murderer in ther neighborhood...“

Now a shot of a street, regular houses, cottages, with a picket fances and trees along the sidewalk and people gathering, some of them with signs, although the camera moves too fast to catch what sign says.

I block it all out, close my eyes and my ears to the voices and images on the television.

But his face emerges from the darkness behind my eyes.

I am fucking fixated again, all right, and I can't help myself and know that I must find Louis Tomlinson and kiss him, press my lips against his lips, my tongue against his tongue, the only way I will end this new fixation of mine.


	4. The Devil Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.“ - Ted Bundy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, like, my favorite chapter so far. I hope you like it too. (I had to re-do the end)

Louis Tomlinson began with cats. Or, to be more exact, kittens. Liked to hold them, and stroke them, feel the brittle bones beneath the fur. Fragile bones, as if they'd snap and break if you pressed too hard, caressed too hard. Which he did, of course, impossible to resist. Later, he didn't just caress them but found that it was easier to fold them into his arms and place hands over their faces and feel them go beautifully limp. He liked this way best, because it was so tender. Inevitably, kittens grew into cats and it wasn't the same. Cats were not trusting, had resistence. Needed more drastic measures, which he hated. Hated drastic measures. Hated violence but sometimes couldn't help it. Had to follow the demands and the dictates of the situation. As a result, he used more strenuous methods. And got used to it. Enjoyed it, in fact. Just cleaning up the neighborhood, he told himself. Crooned the words, as he did his job. The real problem was disposal. Cleaning up the neighborhood of the feline population, he pondered the problem. And found the obvious solution: burial. Which meant getting a shovel. And digging. And sweating. He didn't like to sweat. Didn't like his body's aromas wafting on the air for other people to absorb. Yet the exercise was good. He didn't get enough exercise. That's what his mother always said. His mother wanted him to be more active. Do things. Help around the house. Go places, if only to the mall. She wanted to get rid of him, of course, so she could have Mark to herself.

So he went to the mall. Where he graduated. From cats and kittens and , of course, Aunt  Sarah's canary. The canary was the only representative of the feathered-friend population to recieve his attention. Couldn't resist doing it even though it invited suspicion for the first time.

„How did Rudy get out of the cage ?“Aunt Sarah asked, mystified.

Rudy, a ridiculous name for a canary.

„Maybe the latch got loose,“ he suggested, face all innocent. He had an innocent face. His face was also beautiful. Innocence and beauty, always confirmed when he looked into a mirror, which he often did.

„Rudy was a clever bird,“ he told Aunt Sarah.

„Maybe he opened the latch with his beak and flew around and crashed into the wall.“ Amused as he told her this, her expression of mixed emotions: sad and mystified. Really sad, as she held little Rudy cupped in her hands. Poor thing, crushed like that, so easy, a quick snapping sound and it was over and done with. Tears in Aunt Sarah's eyes. Over a bird, of all things.

Dispatching Rudy was the highlight of his vacation that year with Aunt Sarah in Wickburg.

Back home, visiting the mall, there was a pet store with small animals of all kinds, locked up nice and safe in cages. He regarded them without curiosity. He was tired of the animal population, anyway.

What did that leave ?

He watched the people shopping, carrying bundles. Or just hanging out. Old people sitting on the yellow plastic benches, talking mildly to each other. Other people rushing past the stores, in a hurry, going somewhere. Teenagers  in their oversized clothes, shirts hanging out, pants bunched stupidly at the ankles, baseball caps turned around. The girls looked really terrible, garish colors, crazy earrings, too much lipstick, hair going every which way, some with earrings in their nostrils and insolence on their faces, in their eyes.

He always dressed neatly. Clean clothes. Nikes all laced up, jacket without a spot. But not too neat. Did not want to draw attention to himself, did not want to invite inspection. Especially by those teenage girls with the insolent eyes. Or the watery eyes of old people.

Which would it be ? A girl or someone old ?

The question surprised him, because he had not contemplated doing anything, _anyone_ in particular, preffered to let chance take over, drift with whatever happened. Like with the kittens, cats, and even Rudy. Never plan in advance, go with the flow, follow his instincts. But knew it had to be different now. Suspicions. Investigations. That meant planning, scheming, which made it all kind of exciting.

Excitement was a new experience for him.

He seldom, if ever, felt excited about anything. But did not feel bored, either. Lived in a place between both, with the expectation of something big happening or about to happen. Went through the motions at school, made good grades, faithful with homework, amassed facts and figures and spewed them out as required, made honors without really trying, the computer doing most of the work. Made the teachers happy, his mother, even Mark, who managed a stingy smile once in a while. But the hell with Mark. He would put up with Mark and his mother until situations changed. Meanwhile, he kept out of Mark's way and spent more time at the mall. Banners proclaimed that it was the Second Biggest Mall in New England although he didn't think the second biggest of anything was much to brag about, but the mall was a more interesting place than home. For instance, he was amazed at the change of seasons at the mall. The mall, actually, was without weather, without sun or moon or stars or wind or rain or snow. Yet the seasons were in constant rotation, Christmas and Valentine's Day and Mother's Day, the colors and displays and decorations following the calendar. Saint Patrick's Day, leprechauns and shamrocks, and Easter with bunnies and colored eggs everywhere. At the moment, however, the mall was between holidays, a pause after Mother's Day and before the Fourth of July.

 Waiting for a situation to develop, he began to ration his visits there. Did not linger in one particular section. Made small purchase but chose from a collection of plastic bags at home from Walden Books or Hallmark or Strawberry, which he filled with any old thing so that he looked like a paying customer. He began to disguise himself in small ways. Dressed more like other teenagers, although he disliked wearing baggy clothes that didn't fit well. He visited a thrift shop downtown and bought secondhand stuff. Hated wearing clothing other people had worn but made himself do it. Combed his hair differently, but sometimes with bangs, other times flat and sleek like an old-time movie star. Wore his arm in a sling occasionally. Other times pretended to limp.

The mall was two-and-a-half miles from his house, and sometimes Mark drove him there, glad to be rid of him for a while. Other times he took the bus, although he hated riding the bus, confined in close quarters with other people, who coughed and sweated, inhaled and exhaled, but he sacrificed his personal wants and desires to the cause.

What cause ?

He didn't know. But felt that he was involved in some great future event. And had to be ready when it happened.

Then it happened.

He spotted the girl late one afternoon. She was tall, with dark hair flowing to her shoulders, slender, cool, wearing a white blouse and brown slacks.

She carried herself aloofly as if she were balancing a book on her head.

He began to follow her, limping a bit. He had chosen this day to affect a limp, dragging his right foot as he walked. He was careful to keep her in view, not too distant from her, not too near. The mall was crowded. Thursday  was payday at the local mills and factories, and workers streamed in to cash their checks at one of the bank branches, eat at McDonald's or Friendly's, and go on small shopping sprees.

The girl headed toward Exit E, perfect for his purposes, the distant end of the mall, woods less than the length of a football field away from the bus stop. He watched as the doors opened automatically for her departure. Careful  to keep limping, he managed to quicken his pace, all senses keen and alert, colors everywhere bright and vivid, his step unable to keep pace with his hastening heart.

* * *

 

„My problem, Louis, is your lack of remorse.“

„But that's my problem, not yours.“

„And your insolence.“

„I don't mean to be insolent. I'm truthful. I tell the truth and the truth sometimes hurts. For instance, you have a bad breath, Lieutenant. I can smell it from here. It must offend a lot of people. That's the truth. But how many people have told you that ? Instead, they either lie or try to avoid your company.“

Actually, Louis did not know whether or not the lieutenant had bad breath. But enjoyed baiting him, watching for his reaction. Was there a faint blush now emerging on his cheeks ?

„Your gift of gab. That's a problem, too,“ the lieutenant said, continuing the verbal assault for which Louis admired him, not a whole lot but somewhat.

„Look, Lieutenant, we know what the problem is, right ? Not my lack of remorse or my gift of gab. The problem is that I'm turning eighteen in three days. The state says that I can't be held any longer. That's the problem, isn't it ?“

The lieutenant said nothing. He was an old man, crevices in his face, sorrowful blue eyes, wispy gray hair. He smoked endless cigarettes, the ashes falling indiscriminately on his shirt or tie. His jacket never matched his trousers. He had been one of the arresting officers three years ago and had slipped handcuff's on Louis' wrists. Then began visitng Louis after he started serving his sentence. He had been coming to the facility four times a year, at each change of seasons, for the three years Louis had been incarcerated.

„Why do you keep coming here ?“ Louis asked at the end of the first year.

„Why do you keep seeing me ?“ the lieutenant countered. Like a teacher making the student answer.

„Isn't it about time for you to retire ? You look old and tired,“ Louis said, without sympathy in his voice. The old man looked sad, too, but Louis remained silent about that.

„What would I do if I retired ? I don't have any hobbies, and no family. They give me easy cases. Wait a minute – you're my hoby, Louis. Finding out what makes you tick. Like you're the broken watch and I'm the repairman.“

„Who says the watch is broken ?“ Louis asked, annoyed, but the old cop hadn't answered, merely lit another cigarette.

Which was exactly what he was doing now, probably the final cigarette on this, his final visit. Lieutenant Sheppard said, „You're a psychopath, Louis.“ The smoke came out of the lieutenant's mouth as if his words were stoked by an inner fire.

„A monster.“

Louis recoiled, as if the old cop had struck him in the face. Monster ?

„Chances are you'll kill again. You know it and I know it.“

Or was the old cop merely trying to taunt him ? Trying to make him lose his cool ? _Don't let him do that. Monster_ was only a word, anyway. And those were the only weapons the lieutenant had: words. „You're taking a lot for granted, Lieutenant,“ Louis said, the sound of his voice reassuring, establishing his control of the conversation once more. „You're making wild accusations. I wasn't even convicted by a jury. A judge heard my case. He didn't think I was a monster. He was very sympathetic. So were a lot of other people.“

„Other people ? Did you take a close look at them ? Who they were, what they were ? You killed your mother and father, Louis. In cold blood.“ Not sounding tired anymore.

Louis did not smile but  his eyes gleamed. The lieutenant did not know about the others. Nobody knew about them.

"Mark was not my father," Louis said, leaving behind the thoughts of others. "He was my stepfather. I had just cause, Lieutenant. All that pain ..."

"What do you know about pain?" the old cop snorted.

"You don't even allow me my pain, do you, Lieutenant?"

* * *

He had stolen three cigarettes from Mark's pack of Marlboros. Went to the shed in the backyard, his hideaway, the shed tucked under overgrown maples, branches almost hiding the doorway. A combination lock prevented entry by anyone but himself. His retreat from the world. When he was tired of his mother and Mark, the mall, school, everything, he went to the shed and just sat there. On the old revolving office chair. "What do you do in there, anyway?" Mark often asked, suspicious, always suspicious of everybody and everything. "Nothing," Louis answered. Most times he didn't bother answering Mark, which he knew made Mark furious. He only answered him when he could score points. Actually,  _nothing_ was an honest answer. Because he did nothing in the shed but simply sit there and think. Or didn't even think. Let himself become blank. Like sleeping while awake.

But now he did not simply sit there and think. Instead, he set about doing what he had to do. Opened the only window a bit, to let the smoke out. Lucky the window faced the woods, away from the house. Lit the first cigarette, did not inhale, grimaced at the invasion of smoke in his face and eyes, the taste of it in his mouth. Looked curiously at the glowing tip. Placing the cigarette on the cover of a mayonnaise jar serving as an ashtray, he rolled up his left sleeve. Smooth and pale skin. Tapped the ash from the cigarette, studied the burning end for a moment, then braced himself and pressed the burning tip against his flesh.

Taken by surprise by the sheer ferocity of the pain, he uttered a single syllable of agony: _Ahhhh._ Then shut his mouth, clamping it tight, pressing his lips together. The burning tip fell off the cigarette and dropped to the floor. He stepped on it, still absorbing the pain in his arm, reluctant to look at it. With trembling fingers, he lit another cigarette, eyes slitted against the enveloping smoke, and through moist eyes watched himself place the burning end of the new cigarette against his flesh, and inch or two from the first spot. Grimacing, he gasped, emitted a muffled scream through his lips. Seeing the tip end still glowing red, he pressed it against another spot on his arm, learning that pain reaches a certain point and does not get worse but remains in all its intensity and you can survive it. But, Christ, how it hurt ... causing strange things to happen to his body, a wave of nausea sweeping his stomach, his knees turning weak and watery, and his head swimming with sudden dizziness that made the room whirl sickeningly until everything settled into place again. He held his arm stiffly in front of him making himself look at those three cruel scorched places, could smell his burning flesh – no, not flesh, but the small hairs on his arm, singed and blackened now.

He suddenly leaped from a flash of more pain, this time unexpected. He'd been holding the second cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand, and the cigarette had burned down to his flesh. He dropped it, stepped on it. Then he extended his arm again and smiled grimly as he inspected the three burned places.

He had also planned to use the hammer today but decided the burning was enough this time. He would put the hammer to work tomorrow. Looking at the vise fastened to the edge of the worktable, he wondered how he could use it to facilitate breaking his arm. Might be better than using just the hammer.

 


	5. Heart of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „You feel the last bit of breath leaving their body.  
> You're looking into their eyes.  
> A person in that situation is God.“ - Ted Bundy

Lieutenant Sheppard said, „You're a menace to society, Louis. Because you are incapable of feelings. Have you ever really felt anything? Sad? Or sorry? Sorry for what you did to your mother, your stepfather? Sorry for anything at all? In fact, have you ever even felt happy? That's what makes you a psychopath, Louis. You are incapable of connecting with other people. Emotion, that's what connects us all. Without emotion, without feelings, we're animals.“

„I read somewhere that swans mate for life, Lieutenant. Must be some kind of feeling involved there, some kind of emotion. Maybe animals know more about emotions than we give them credit for ...“

Louis liked these verbal games with the old lieutenant. He knew he could talk circles around him. His gift of gab was actually for the lieutenant's benefit. Ordinarily he didn't have much to say to anyone, especially in this place. Talking to the old man, baiting him now and then, broke the monotony of the facility.

„Stop playing games, Louis. You know very well what I mean about lack of feeling ...“

 

* * *

 

Ah, but he had felt bad about the girl at the mall. Holding her limp body in his arms afterward, cradling her gently, he had seen that her makeup was too heavy. His fingers stroked her long black curly hair. He opened her mouth and counted five fillings. But he had no time for further inspection because footfalls reached his ears, along with the crackling of bushes being pushed aside. Someone was nearby and coming closer. He crouched down, the girl beneath him, stilling himself, listening to the crunch of footsteps passing by and then receding, growing faint. Then silence again, except for the distant sounds of cars on the highway. He sighed with relief and vowed to be more careful in the future.

It had been so easy to lure the girl away from the mall. First of all, he had dropped the limping act once he followed her out the door. Outside, in the chilled twilight air, he had spotted her waiting at the bus stop. No one else was in sight. He approached her and turned on The Charm. Ever since he was a little kid, The Charm had worked wonders. That smile, along with his brown hair and blue eyes. When he smiled, something happened to his eyes. His eyes seemed to smile, too, sort of glowed. Irresistible. He had watched The Charm happen when he studied himself in a mirror. _What a sweet little boy,_ he heard people say when he was just a child. And later: _a great-looking boy you've got there,  Mrs. Tomlinson._ Louis was short but slender. Girls flirted with him at school but he didn't respond. Boys stayed away from him and he didn't mind. He preferred to be alone. He found himself reflected in other people's attitudes. Basked in their admiration. Or seemed to. Yet not everyone was affected by The Charm. Some people were indifferent. Some people he could not win over. A teacher now and then. People who regarded him with indifference or simply turned away, unimpressed, even suspicious. Maybe a store clerk or a bus driver. Specifically, Emma Barton, whom he'd asked to the Spring Dance in the eighth grade. He'd had no inclination to go to the Spring Dance, but his mother kept hounding him about it. „Everybody wants to go to the Spring Dance,“ his mother insisted. „Everybody normal, that is.“ Which stung him. Normal? So he asked Emma Barton. Who was nothing special although pretty and energetic and a cheerleader. She looked at him with cool appraising eyes and said: „No thanks.“ Humiliating him, leaving him staring in disbelief as she walked away. So he had learned early on that here were people who did not respond properly to The Charm and he stayed away from them, ignored them, set them apart from his life, as if they did not exist.

His mother was a puzzle to him. She usually looked at him with the tender eyes of love. Always kissed him goodnight, a kiss that left a moist spot on his cheek. He dimly remembered good times when he was a small kid and they'd cuddle in bed. But he didn't like to think of those times after Mark came along. Once in a while he caught his mother studying him, eyes narrowed, as if she were regarding a stranger.

He was always a dutiful son. He kept his room clean. He made no fuss when she sent him on errands even when it was inconvenient. He never played his CDs too loud. He was not insolent, never answered back when she said stupid things. She had a habit of saying everything twice: _It's cold out. It's cold out._ Or _Did you have a good day at school today? Did you have a good day at school today?_ He put up with that, sometimes joked with her about it, didn't let it get on his nerves. But it got on Mark's nerves. A lot of things got on Mark's nerves. Louis was the major thing. They hated each other at first sight. Amend that: Louis did not hate him. Mark was not worth hating. He was such an ugly specimen of humanity. _What does she see in him?_ That was the question to which Louis never found an answer.

He thought of his mother and Emma Barton as he held the limp body of the girl in his arms. He pictured Emma Barton lying close to him like this, but he immediately rejected the image. Emma was small and blond; this girl was tall and dark. Anyway, Emma had seen something in his eyes that Louis knew existed and he could not fault her for that, despite the humiliation. His mother had caused the humiliation when she had forced him to ask Emma to the dance. For the first time, the glimmer of what he would someday do  to his mother and Mark, like the winking of a distant star in his consciousness.

As Louis lay beside the girl, ignoring the cheap parfume in his nostrils, he sighed with contentment. Finally, he laid her gently to rest in the bushes, carefully brushing back a strand of hair from her face. That black hair. Her left arm fell loose, pale and fragile. For some reason, he trailed his mouth along her flesh, so warm and moist against his lips. Bliss filled him. He had never known such tenderness before, his body trembling with it. He knew that he must find it again.

 

* * *

 

„Your plans, Louis. Do you want to discuss them?“

The old lieutenant's voice had gentled. „Where you're going, what you're going to do. You've had not visitors here. Haven't had any mail for long time ...“

Louis had been deluged with mail when he first arrived at the facility. Letters from kids who thought he was some kind of hero. Or a martyr or a victim. Most of the mail from teenage girls, who also sent pictures of themselves, cheap photos made in machines at the malls for a dollar. Some letters had lipstick kisses on them, promises and pledges. _I will wait for you forever._ Letters and postcards from skinheads, neo-Nazis, grotesques, and freaks that Louis tossed aside without answering.

After a while, he stopped reading the letters and postcards. Had never answered them in the first place and had ignored requests for his autograph. He distributed to the other inmates the gifts he received, homemade cakes and cookies, elaborate handmade greeting cards, neckties, a few boxes of condoms. The inmates clamored for his letters, so that they could write to the girls who'd sent them, but Louis refused to hand them over. Why inflict these sorry specimens, these losers, on poor, unsuspecting girls? Which did not earn Louis any points from the other prisoners, despite the candy and cake he turned over to them. Louis viewed his fellow prisoners with indifference. He didn't want to make friends. Or enemies. He simply wanted to be left alone, to avoid stupid conversations, to serve his time without trouble or fuss of any kind. Which was easy. As the only murderer in the facility, he lived, for the most part, separately from the other prisoners. He shared classrooms, details, and meals with them. But his room was in a different wing of facility. He took his recreational activities alone,  strolling the grounds by himself when other prisoners were inside. He was not allowed to participate in team sports, watched baseball games from his second-floor window. He enjoyed his solitude. Most of the other prisoners were stupid, caught for pretty crimes that anyone with intelligence wouldn't be dumb enough to be caught doing.

His case had drawn national attention when authorities attempted to try him as an adult for the murders of his mother and stepfather. It was two months after his fifteenth birthday. He had remained silent during the frenzy of publicity, granted no interviews, made no statements. When he allowed himself to be photographed, he was careful to smile for the camera, not the smile of The Charmer but a sad, wistful  smile that he calculated would soften his image. The clincher came when he faced the cameras outside police headquarters after his arrest. Slowly and deliberately, he pushed up his sleeves and revealed the scars from the cigarette burns on his arm, the bruise that remained from his broken arm. The wounds were silent and compelling evidence of the abuse he had received from his stepfather, abuse that, he told his interrogators, his mother had not only condoned but encouraged.

Support for him came immediately, not only from the freaks who sent him letters and gifts but from college professors, newspapers as far away as Boston. They had played right into his hands. None of those who supported him cared to look deeply into his case, letting a few scars on his arm and a sad smile convince them that he had been done wrong. _Kill Your Parents and Become the Victim. What a wonderful country,_ he thought.

He was not exonerated, of course, simply because he had confessed to the murders. But the scars and the millions of words from professors and columnists and editorial writers caused the authorities to try him as a juvenile instead of an adult. Which meant that he would be placed in the jurisdiction of the state Department of Youth Services, serving his sentence in a youth facility instead of a state prison. He would be set free, without restrictions, at the age of eighteen, three days from now. And here was the old lieutenant swallowing his anger, asking him his plans.

He had not talked to anyone, counselors or advisors, about what he would do, where he would go when the facility's doors closed behind him on Friday. He hadn't talked about his plans simply because he did not have to. His freedom was complete and unconditional. He would not be on parole or probation. His records would be sealed. He would not have to report to anybody or account for his future actions. He _did_ have plans, of course. Long-range plans. Which were  nobody's business. But his immediate plans were different. Telling the old lieutenant about them would serve a useful purpose.

„I'm going to live with my Aunt Sarah, in Wickburg, up in Massachusetts, until I decide what to do about the future.“

The lieutenant looked skeptical.

„She's never visited you here. Does she know about your plans.“

„Aunt Sarah doesn't like to travel and I didn't want her to see me in this place. We've been writing to each other. I was allowed to make a longdistance phone call to her last week. She said she would be glad to take me in. She's my mother's sister.“

„Any job prospects? You finished high school here, earned your GED. You did very well in the machine shop ...“

Louis hated the machine shop. Had caught on fast to the demands and intricacies of tool and die making but did not plan to earn his living that way.

„College maybe. I just want to pace myself for a while.“

„The news media will be a factor, Louis. You're going to be hounded. They'll be waiting for you when you step out of here. They'll follow you to your Aunt Sarah's place. They'll be on the watch night and day. You're the last of a breed, Louis. Things are changing on the outside. New laws are being passed. Stiffer penalties for juveniles who commit  serious crimes. More of them are now being tried as adults- „

„That has nothing to do with me, Lieutenant,“ Louis interrupted. He knew that it was time for him to make his pitch, to resurrect The Charm, and convince the old cop that he had changed.

„I want to make something of myself,“ he said, allowing the wistful smile to appear. „They say your body changes every few years. Well, I came here just turned fifteen and I'm leaving at eighteen and I'm a different person. The kid who killed his mother and stepfather was somebody else. I want to make a new start ...“

Too much charm? Or too little? Had he sounded sincere?

The lieutenant gazed at him steadily for a moment without expression. He stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray, tried to rub the ashes off his tie but they remained. Probably from an earlier cigarette. He reached for his beat-up old briefcase, opened it, and extracted a big yellow pad with ruled lines. He scrutinized a series to scribbles on the pad, frowning. Then began to read in a flat, toneless voice:

„Rachel Fisher. Fifteen years of age. Body found in bushes near Greenhill Mall. Strangled. Sexually assaulted, probably after death occurred.“

Then looked up, straight into Louis' eyes.

 _So much for The Charm,_ Louis thought. So much for sincerity.

„That's old stuff, Lieutenant. I was never charged with Rachel Fisher's death. Questioned, yes, because it happened the same year my mother and stepfather died. A big coincidence. But no charges were brought. There was no motive.“

„Psychopats don't need a motive,“ the old cop said.

„Witnesses reported the girl was being followed by a cripple,“ Louis said. „Someone with a bad leg, someone who limped.“

„A bad leg, a limp can be easily faked,“ the lieutenant said, voice still flat, deadly.

His eyes returned to the pad.

„Elizabeth Ann Tanner,“ he recited. „Sixteen. Disappeared six weeks after Rachel Fisher's death. A month before your mother and Mark died. Still missing. But believed dead.“

Louis was genuinely surprised and kept his face blank, stilling himself. No one had ever questioned him about Elizabeth Ann Tanner. Her name had never been mentioned to him. He kept his eyes away from the pad, did not want the lieutenant to see him searching for another name, a third girl, that no one knew about.

„Elizabeth Ann Tanner,“ Louis mused, allowing the name to form on his lips and bringing back that moment of tenderness behind the dump, her black fragrant hair in his mouth. „Her name is vaguely familiar,“ he said. Her name had appeared in the newspapers at the time, and denying that knowledge would only make the lieutenant more suspicious. „Didn't she live someplace out on the West Coast?“

„Right,“ the old cop said brightly, as if Louis had answered the right question and won a prize. „But she had relatives here in New England. An uncle and aunt she sometimes visited.“

„I didn't know that,“ Louis said.

„You know it now,“ the lieutenant said. „Four deaths, Louis. Your mother, your stepfather, Rachel Fisher, Elizabeth Ann Tanner. All within months of each other. Extraordinary, wouldn't you say?“

 _And a fifth that nobody knew about, which made it_ really _extraordinary,_ Louis thought, saying instead: „But you said Elizabeth Ann Tanner's body was never found. Maybe she ran away.“

„Oh she's dead, all right,“ the old cop said. „Isn't she, Louis?“

Louis shook his head.

„Why are you doing this, Lieutenant? You're about ready to retire, aren't you? You should be enjoying life. How many years do you have left? You should think about things like that.“

„Is that a threat, Louis?“

„Of course not, Lieutenant.“ Trying The Charm again. „I would never threaten you. All I want to do is get out of this place and lead a normal life.“

The old cop sighed, his frail shoulders lifting and falling. He turned away and replaced the yellow pad in his briefcase. He stood up, leaning against the table, his old man's stomach bulging slightly against it.

„Guess we won't  see each other anymore, will we, Lieutenant?“ Louis said. „I'm going to miss our meetings.“ Surprised at the truth of the statement.

The lieutenant's eyes flashed, the weariness and sadness suddenly gone, replaced by – what? The sly look of success. But what kind of success? „I'll be outside waving goodbye the day you're free,“ he said. But his eyes and tone of voice we telling Louis that he never expected that day to come.

That was the second surprise the old cop had pulled today – first, the names on the yellow pad and now the flash of triumph.

„Friday,“ Louis said, and repeated the word for emphasis. „Friday. Wave to me Friday when I leave this place ...“

The lieutenant did not answer. His silence was ominous. He gathered his briefcase in both arms and pressed it against his chest as if to guard his old bones. He shuffled to the doorway and paused there, looking back, the spark gone from his eyes, the momentary triumph having passed. He looked exactly like what he was. A sad and tired old man who had gone down to defeat at the hands of Louis Tomlinson.

Louis dismissed the lieutenant from his mind the moment the door closed. Back in his room, he checked the calendar on the wall and smiled at the red circle around Friday. Glancing at his bed, he saw his book on martial arts lying on the gray spread. The book had been on the windowsill this morning when he left the room. Opening the book, he riffled through the pages, and found a note tucked between pages 72 and 73. The note, in crude handwriting deliberately disguised, said:

_A favor for a favor. Watch your step. Don't be provoked or_ _you might not get out Friday. Or at all._

The note was unsigned, but Louis knew who had written it.

He also had learned the secret of that flash of triumph in the old cop's eyes.


	6. History Repeating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „I didn't want to hurt them, I only wanted to kill them.“ - David Berkowitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little about the old cop, we had to meet him too someday, right ?! I know some of you miss Harry, so he will come very soon, in one or two chapters, I promise. Also I apologize for the names, I totally lost inspiration and so I put Niall and Liam, hope you don't mind it. Okay, enjoy :) (my school starts on Monday so my updates will be a little slower due my lack of time)

Police Lieutenant Alen Sheppard's bad dream began again after Louis Tomlinson came into his life. The dream always started with children crying in the distance, out of sight, their cries growing louder and nearer until they came into view. Little girls in white dresses. Running, running, fleeing some terrible objects of dread, their eyes blank like unfinished drawings, their screams so fierce that he'd finally vault into wakefulness. As he did now, heart pounding, thin arms and legs trembling.

The old cop sat up in bed, trying to blink away the dream. He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. He thought he had left the dream behind in Oregon a long time ago. But hadn't, of course.

He crept out of bed, old bones protesting, the cries of the children finally diminishing as he stalked to the kitchen section of the apartment. Dawn, a gray phantom, lurked outside the window. As he drew water into a kettle and placed it on the stove, his thoughts went inevitably to Louis Tomlinson. And Friday. And the plan.

Liam had been against the plan, of course. He was the state's deputy commissioner of youth services and went by the book, did not like to improvise. Black and white, that was Liam, never admitting grays. Respected facts, not instincts.

Alen's boss, Chief Hardy, didn't mind bending the rules. Which was why Hardy had ascended to the top post in the department. Knowing what had happened out in Oregon, he allowed Alen Sheppard's latitude. „But for Christ's sake be careful. And take care of yourself. You're no longer a kid ...“

Alen Sheppard had been a cop for twenty-six years out in Oregon and the next twenty here in New England. He'd worked all the beats, been praised and promoted regularly and was finally named a detective lieutenant, and office where his instincts and dogged working habits brought him success but never satisfaction. His one devastating failure back in Oregon had tarnished all the triumphs of his career.

That failure focused on an image he could not erase from his mind: the riverbank on the city's outskirts as he watched them bring another child's body up from the swirling waters. Looking at the limp form in the arms of a rescue worker, he was stunned to realize that he had seen her before. He had made her First Communion the Sunday before at St. Anthony's Church, where he had been a parishioner all his life. He did not know her name  or anything about her but had been struck by her sweet innocence as she came down the aisle in her white dress, hands clasped against her chest, eyes lowered. For the first time he felt the absence of a child in his life and wondered whether he had made a mistake in avoiding marriage or even a close relationship. The child passed by his pew, close enough for him to touch her shoulder.

She had been the third of what proved eventually to be five murders by a serial killer. Five children under the age of ten, snatched and strangled on the first Monday of the month, each murder exactly three months apart. The killer stalked the children like a ghost, leaving no clues behind. After the fifth murder, the killings stopped. That dreaded first Monday came and went without incident. No child's body turned up. No stunned and weeping parents. Alen Sheppard and his crew of detectives congratulated themselves, as if somehow they had actually solved the case, laughing out of a strange nervous relief. That night Alen Sheppard dreamed of  the crying children for the first time. Afterward he lay in bed for long minutes, thinking of the child walking down the aisle, those fragile fingers clasped together. He was suddenly glad that he had never married, never had children, and had thus eliminated the pain of impending loss. Why, then, this sudden ache that he finally recognized as lonliness?

Drinking his tea, he glanced out the  window at the bleak buildings stark in emerging daylight. This old city in New England resembled the city he had fled in Oregon, needing to make a new start, as far from the scene of his failure as possible, from one coast to another. He immersed himself in the routine of police work. He didn't mind the long hours, working overtime without putting in for extra pay, to relieve young cops with growing families. He spent his spare time chasing down evidence in old, unsolved cases. Work, he found, could be benevolent, filling the hours, the days, the weeks. Until you found that the years had passed by almost unnoticed. The failure in Oregon grew dim and distant in his memory, and the dream did not disturb his sleep anymore. Until Louis Tomlinson arrived in his life.

A dim recollection had stirred within him as he sat in the shadows of the interrogation room watching his colleagues question Louis Tomlinson. He instantly recalled someone he had dismissed from his mind twenty years before, the only suspect in the Oregon murders. His name came to Alen Sheppard out of the mists of memory – Lucien Osborn. He'd been found in the vicinity of the river in which the body of that First Communion child, and later a red-haired child named Emily Smith, had been thrown. Lucien Osborn, had been polite, eager to help, answering questions without hesitation. He had recently graduated with honors from a local high school and was working that summer as a waiter to put away money toward his tuition at a state college. The questioning had been brief, simply because the boy had a logical explanation for his presence near the river: he'd been waiting for a girl. The girl, brought in later, corroborated his story. He was barely eighteen – how could he possibly be a serial killer, anyway?

Alen escorted Lucien Osborn to the door of headquarters after the questioning. The boy kept up a constant chatter, as if on a high, after the interrogation. Or perhaps his nervousness was manifesting itself. After a final apology to the boy, Alen watched as he went down the steps and walked briskly away. Something made Alen remain in place as Lucien Osborn headed down the street. The sun flashed on the windshields of passing cars but the day remained dismal to the detective. Just before turning the corner, not directly at Alen but at the police building itself. A smile brightened his face. More than a smile, it seemed to Alen, a smirk of self-satisfaction with a hint of mischief in it. Or malice. Alen Sheppard shivered a bit, despite the day's heat. As the boy disappeared around the corner, Alen curbed an impulse to chase him down to ask him: _Why did you smile like that?_ Then: _Forget it._ Three experts had questioned the boy, and he had alibis, as well as the girl backing his story. But alibis could be manufactured and witnesses coerced, couldn't they? _Stop it,_ he told himself, caught in a spin of emotions. Was he allowing his pain and anguish to affect his judgement, a distant malicious smile to warp his instincts?

Twenty years later he witnessed another cleancut, well-mannered boy being questioned about murder. This time, the suspect readily admitted killing his mother and stepfather. He told his story in straightforward fashion, matter-of-factly. He answered all the questions politely, as if eager to assist the police in their investigation.

Alen Sheppard studied Louis Tomlinson carefully as he displayed the scars on his arm, the bruise that remained from the fracture. Later, as he posed for the cameras, a wistful smile appeared on Louis' face, a smile that told the world he was trying to disguise the pain within him. News photographers could not resist that wan, pitiful smile.

But Alen Sheppard saw another kind of smile on Louis' lips after he had been brought back to his cell to await the next day's arraignment. Precautions had been taken against a suicide attempt, the boy stripped of belt, shoelaces, anything that could be used to harm himself. His movements were observed by a camera mounted in a corner high on the wall of his cell. For some reason, Alen Sheppard turned back to the cell after letting the others go on before him. He could not shake the feeling that Louis Tomlinson was not what he seemed to be. All his answeres had been too pat, almost as if they had been rehearsed. Glancing into the cell, he saw that Louis had turned his back to the camera, was holding his face in his hands, cupping his chin with his fingers. And he was smiling – that same smirk of satisfaction he had observed on that other boy's face long ago. A smile of secret triumph, as if he had played a trick on the entire world and was enjoying it now in solitude.

Alen Sheppard went to the files, brought up on the computer the case of Rachel Fisher ,whose body had been found in woods near a mall less than three miles from Louis Tomlinson's home. Another file disclosed a girl by the name of Elizabeth Ann Tanner, visiting locally from Los Angeles, reported missing three months ago. Despite the burns and the fractured arm, there'd been no doubt that Louis Tomlinson had murdered his mother and stepfather in cold blood. No remorse had appeared in his eyes as he admitted to the crime. Were Rachel Fisher's murder and Elizabeth Ann Tanner's disappearance mere coincidences?

Thus began Alen Sheppard's investigation and later his visits to the youth facility where Louis had been sent after appearing in court as a juvenille. All Alen Sheppard's experience and observations convinced him that Louis Tomlinson was a serial killer, like an evil incarnation but he believed his instincts and vowed silently to put an end to Louis Tomlinson's grotesque career one way or another.

The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts, and Alen Sheppard placed his teacup on the table.

As expected, Horan was on the line. Niall Horan was young and ambitious, passing his first year in the detective division assigned to Alen Sheppard. He'd become the legs of the old cop. He called Alen every morning shortly after seven. To make sure I'm alive, Alen told him. But actually to bring him up to date on overnight reports before Alen left for the office.

„Two more days to go, Lou,“ Horan said, using the traditional shortened version of _Lieutenant._ „Think it will happen today?“

„If not today, tomorrow,“ Alen said. „Or sometime.“

„Suppose it doesn't?“ asked Horan, a natural worrier whose teenage acne still lingered on his face. „What do we do?“

Alen sighed but his ancient heart kicked in, energized by the thought of Louis Tomlinson as his quarry, „We wait,“ he said. „Another day, another plan.“

Horan, too, sighed. „Okay,“ he said, resignation in his voice.

Alen Sheppard knew how it was to be young and eager and wanting immediate action, now, at this moment.

„Be patient, Niall,“ he said. „Be patient ...“

Alen Sheppard, old cop, had been patient for twenty years.


	7. Kill or Be Killed (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „Even psychopaths have emotions if you dig deep enough but then again, maybe they don't.“ – Richard Ramirez

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies :) I know I've been shitty because I haven't updated in a long time, but here I am again (pretend to be happy).  
> I had small difficulties with writing, but I have quickened my pace and wrote 2/3 of a chapter and I wanted to finish whole chapter and then post it, but I promised someone I'd update on Sunday (that was like 2 days ago) so I feel like shit for not updating so I'll make 2 parts of one chapter. Here's the first part, aaand I'll post second part very soon.   
> I hope you like this and I send lots of love :) x

Louis Tomlinson did not dream. His sleeping hours were a blank. He closed hi eyes at night and plunged instantly into the nothingness of sleep, and woke up just as suddenly, eyes flying open to greet another day, a day without either hope or hopelessness. His three years at the facility had been a procession of such days. Now, only three more remained, and he found it difficult to realize that his freedom was at hand.

He had known at the moment he removed his mother and Mark from this world that he faced a certain number of years without freedom. He also knew that he was providing himself with protection. Protection from what ? From doing what he had done to those three girls, although Lieutenant Sheppard, smart as he was, and not as easy to fool as everybody else, thought there were only two. True, he had surprised Louis when he brought up the names of Rachel Fisher and Elizabeth Ann Tanner, but the old cop didn't have the slightest knowledge of a girl named Eni Graves, who had been the most beautiful of them all.

Louis knew he had been pursuing a dangerous course with the girls, taking too many risks, too often. Finally he'd found it necessary to call a halt. Temporarily, of course. He enjoyed looking older than his age and could pass easily for seventeen or eighteen. But he also had the disadvantages of being underage. No driver's license, no source of income. He knew that he was riding for a fall, certain to trip himself up if he continued on his present course. As a result, the murders of his mother and Mark would serve several purposes. He'd get rid of a stepfather whom he hated fiercely and a mother who had taken this stranger into their home. He'd also carry out a long – range plan. The plan evolved from news stories in which he learned that the state allowed kids to be tried as juveniles when they committed serious crimes, even murder, if there was evidence of child abuse. Which meant freedom after reaching the age of eighteen. He also became aware of efforts being made to try juveniles as adults for those same crimes. Or to extend juvenile sentences to the age of twenty-one.

Louis saw the logic of carrying out the murders as soon as possible,  before the law could be changed. He'd be sacrificing about three years of his life for fifty or sixty later years when he'd be free to do as he pleased.

 _What a bargain,_ he sang to himself, as he thought now of Mark and his mother. Their murders were carried out in businesslike fashion, without passion or regret,  but he experienced a thrill in his bones when Mark looked into his eyes at the final moment and realized what was happening. „Goodbye, Mark,“ Louis murmured, watching the light of life fading in Mark's pupils. The moment was without tenderness but had its own special kind of beauty.

After a few months at the facility, Louis was surprised when he experienced longing for the first time in his life, a longing for tenderness made more intense because it was impossible to achieve here.

 Although  he never dreamed, he spent sweet moments in his bed, curled up as if in his mother's womb, eyes half closed, summoning from the past certain moments with his girls – Rachel, Elizabeth Ann and Eni. Moments of intimacy and ecstasy and a piercing tenderness that became an ache within him. But a sweet ache, which he could not resist inviting into the pale thing his life had become. He found that he could interchange the girls in his memory and realized, for the first time, how much they resembled each other, how he was always drawn to girls who were tall and slender, with long dark hair and eyes that contained hidden promises only he could decipher. Eni had been the most beautiful, tawny skin and thick hair tumbling to her shoulders, hair that made his pulse race and juices fill his mouth. He met her the weekend his mother and Mark went to the coast of Maine for a brief vacation. Louis convinced them that he should stay home alone, counting on the knowledge that Mark would prefer not to have Louis accompany them, anyway. Rules and regulations were posted on the refrigerator door, and Louis promised to abide by them. An hour after they left, Louis boarded a bus for Albany, New York, three and a half hours away. Purchasing a ticket required no identification, left no clues behind.

He barely disguised himself, messy hair, horn-rimmed glasses he'd bought at a flea market earlier. Wearing the glasses gave him a dim headache and slightly blurred his vision but the blurring actually softened the harshness of things, blunting the cutting edges of buildings, curbs, traffic signs, mirrors. In Albany he took a local bus to a town chosen at random because he liked the sound of the name. Haven. He timed his arrival with classes ending at Haven High School. Hung around, spotting at last the girl who turned out to be Eni Graves. It had been a simple thing to turn on The Charm, to lure her away from the school bus. She smelled delicious, something lemony and fresh, like long fields at springtime. His fingers trembled as he held her hand and she responded by leaning against him. He enjoyed answering her questions, making up a new, complete history of himself with another name altogether, Emanuel Nicholson, son of a wild and tempestuous mother from South America and a father who was an accountant, of all things. „Oh, Emanuel,“ she had whispered in that secret place to which she brought him, a place where she went to dream her own dreams, away from the world of her everyday life. He had spent a wonderful hour with her as they explored each other with fumbled caresses and passionate kisses. Then those final minutes when he'd been overcome with tenderness. And a sadness, surprising, too, as he thought of Emanuel Nicholson, wondering what it would be like to be someone else and not Louis Tomlinson. Sensing someone nearby, he stilled, listening. The moment passed and he never thought of becoming Emanuel Nicholson again. But he occasionally spent tender moments remembering Eni Graves.

He did not indulge in his reveries too often in the facility, knowing the danger of too much desire, knowing that he had to postpone those longings, he immersed himself into the routine of the place, just as earlier he had adjusted himself to school and home, taking no pleasure in it but accepting the postponement of pleasure. In all the years he spent in the facility, only twice did he come close to achieving moments of tenderness.

The first involved the mouse that began to visit him on a daily basis. He first discovered it after returning to his room following one of the countless workshops. Cute little thing. His first impulse had been to catch the visitor and dispatch it immediately. The mouse had invaded his private domain and should be executed. But he was also fascinated by the tiny animal. He looked at the furry exterior and imagined its tiny, fragile bones.

It amused him to watch the mouse playing in the corner, small legs skittering as it sniffed the floor, the little rodent nose twitching at the air. He watched it disappear in a hole so tiny he was astonished as the mouse insinuated itself into it. That night, after dinner, he brought a bit of cheese back from cafeteria, sprinkled broken bits in the corner. In  the morning the cheese was gone. He smiled, the flesh of his face feeling strange. Realized  he had not smiled in ages. Could not remember the last time he had smiled.

He fed the mouse for the next few days, watched it cavort in the corner, surprised that it did not seem to gain weight. Maybe there was more than one mouse: they all looked alike, of course. The mouse became part of his routine, past of his life. One afternoon it did not show up and he waited. Paced the room. Glanced out the window at nothing. Tried to read but could not. The room seemed to have lost a certain essence that he could not pin down. Then knew suddenly what it was. The room was – lonely. For the first time in his life, he knew what loneliness was like. Until that moment the word had been meaningless to him.

Unaccustomed to such an emotion, he leaped from his chair, wanting to leave, get out of here. But could not, of course. He went to bed that night without carrying out his usual routines:  did not do his hundred push-ups, did not read the next chapter in the  manual on martial arts he had bought surreptitiously from another prisoner, did not relive one of the bright moments of his life with one of his girls. Instead, he lay staring up at the ceiling, listening for the sounds of the mouse. But heard nothing.

The mouse returned the next day. He found it nosing around the room when he got back from his last class of the day.

Suddenly, the mouse stood still, as if becoming aware of his presence, stood on his two hind legs, sniffing, quivering nose pointed directly at him. He advanced toward it. The mouse did not move, awaited his coming. He moved stealthily forward, thrilled, recalling how he had moved toward Elizabeth Ann this way, Elizabeth Ann, like the mouse, had had no notion about what was going to happen.

He reached out and snatched the tiny rodent, not surprised that it was so easy. It was as if the mouse knew its fate and was sacrificing itself. The pulse of small body beat softly against the flesh of Louis' arm. The nose twittered, the body twitched. Despite the loneliness that he knew would be the result of his actions, he gently, lovingly squeezed, seeking the tenderness.

The mouse became still in his hand, the moment of tenderness swift and fleeting, almost non-existent. Disappointed, he slipped the body into his pocket and flushed it down the toilet on his next visit to the bathroom. Felt no regret, felt nothing, as the rushing waters swallowed the mouse.

The second time he sought the tenderness in the facility had been a complete failure. He had also placed himself in a risky situation. The incident involved the bully called Sonny Boy.

There was always a bully on the premises, no matter where you went. Bullies in the schoolyard, in the school corridors, on the athletic fields. Bullies, too, in the facility, because bullies have a way of eventually screwing up. Bullies came in all shapes and sizes.

Sonny Boy was thin, with pale skin and mild blue eyes. At fifteen, he was already a career criminal. But soft crimes, petty. Shoplifting, housebreaks, auto theft, although he was hardly tall enough to peer over a car's steering wheel. He had finally been sent to the facility for attacking a teacher in sudden fury, holding a knife to the teacher's throat. Louis heard the stories being passed around about Sonny Boy and shook his head in contempt.

Sonny Boy's cruelties were sly and slippery. Jostling, pushing, tripping. And intimidating, of course. All out of sight of the guards. Like all bullies, he had a gift for seeking out likely victims. As if a radar beam zoomed out of his eyes and focused on a target.

Louis, observing at a distance as always, waited for Sonny Boy to find his victim. Just as bullies could be found everywhere, so could the victims. Some were obvious, could have been wearing _KICK ME_ signs on their backs. Louis could name any of a dozen guys who fit the requirement of victim. He was surprised at Sonny Boy's choice: C-Note Leviathan, an affable, carefree kid who was the star pitcher on the facility's baseball team, easygoing, quick to laugh at a joke, relaxed at all times. The least likely victim in the place because he stood over six feet tall and registered 180 pounds when he stepped on the scale. He spoke in a slow, unhurried drawl.

Sonny Boy had evidently found a weakness, a vulnerable spot in C-Note's character, because the slow-talking ballplayer submitted himself to Sonny Boy's tricks and ruses.

Still affable and easygoing, C-Note continued to win ball games as the team's top pitcher and smiled modestly at the applause and approbation. But Louis observed a shadow crossing his face when Sonny Boy approached, saw his meek acceptance of Sonny Boy's jokes and jibes. „You sound stupid when you open your mouth to speak, small brain.“ He ran  errands for Sonny Boy, returned his soiled dishes at utensils to the counter at mealtimes. Remained silent when Sonny Boy ordered, „Shut up.“

Everyone accepted the situation  without comment or intervention. You did not interfere with the actions of others, no matter how cruel or vindictive. Keep your distance. Don't fight anyone else's battles. Don't even be curious about other prisoners, what they do and why they do it.

His dislike of Sonny Boy tempted him to intervene, to use his reputation as a killer to intimidate the bully. But time ruled out any action. The calendar in his room had shown that less than a month remained before his freedom arrived. It would be stupid to become involved in someone else's problem at this particular moment.

Then: enter the Señorita. Who awakened all his desires and made him ache with his old longings.


	8. Let the Right One In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We've all got the power in our hands to kill, but most people are afraid to ... The ones who aren't afraid, control life itself." - Richard Ramirez

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing: Don't worry.

The facility was a coed institution, but males and females were not allowed contact with each other. According to the rules, that is. They shared the same cafeteria and gymnasium and athletic field, but never simultaneously. They caught swift glimpses of each other on occasion, and males were quick to call out to the girls, yelling obscenities or variations on what they would like to do to their female counterparts, in language that made Louis turn away in disgust. The raw language of the facility offended him. He did not use such words himself. Mark, as bad as he was, had never sworn, and his mother has blessed herself whenever she heard anyone using swear words, especially that word beginning with _F._ The _F_ word was commonly used in the facility as salt and pepper on the dinner table. Louis had never used the _F_ word.

Prisoners at the facility learned to eat quickly, because meal time sessions were only forty-five minutes long. Males first, females second. A fifteen-minute interval between the two sessions allowed the cafeteria to be cleaned up and prepared for the arrival of the girls. Louis supervised the prisoners who cleared the tables, wiped them clean, and swept the floor.

Louis saw the Señorita for the first time at the end of the cleanup detail. He was about to leave after a final check of the job when the door to the female side opened unexpectedly and a girl walked in. She was tall and slender, long black hair cascading to her shoulders. Their eyes met and held.

Until the guard's voice intervened: „Hey you, out.“

She blushed furiously, which deepened the beauty of her dusky skin.

„My first day here,“ she apologized, a gentle accent softening her words.

As the guard waved her away, her eyes sought Louis once more. A pang tore at his heart, longing overwhelmed him. Did he see longing in her eyes as well? He found Sonny Boy at his side, leering: „Hey, the Ice Man's falling in love.“ Louis gave him a withering look and Sonny Boy faded away. Louis realized for the first time that he had picked up a nickname like everyone else: Ice Man.

That night her face appeared before him when he closed his eyes. That low sultry voice echoed in his ears. Even in the drab facility uniform, she had been vibrant in her beauty, a contrast to the other girls in the place. She made him nostalgic for places he'd never known, calling to his mind sunbaked squares, cobblestoned courtyards, a hacienda sleeping in the shadows. That was the moment she became the Señorita for him.

He caught sight of her occasionally in the next few days, glimpses from his window as she strolled to the ball field, as she left the gym, always the last one depart. He lingered in the cafeteria after the cleanup, hoping to see her again. Once or twice she entered but always with a group of girls, although she looked his way once in a while and their eyes spoke to each other. He turned away, the pulse  in his temple beating wildly.

The old longings were more intense than ever before. He tossed in his bed at night, spent restless moments pacing his cell. He was scheduled to be released soon. But how long would she  be a prisoner here? He hoped it would not be long – sentences could be as short as a few weeks, even less if a prisoner was simply awaiting an appearance in court.

He pondered taking steps to get in touch with her. Communication between prisoners was always possible through a system of messages left at certain locations, like the cafeteria of the gym. A trustee known as the Distributor collected and delivered messages. For a price, of course. The price was whatever prisoners could afford, money or cigarettes or an exchange of merchandise, like porno magazines or jewelry. The Distributor was quick-talking and quick-walking, everything about him quick, especially his hands while making the exchanges. He also could arrange furtive meetings, although these were risky, with prices few prisoners could afford, and tough disciplinary action if discovered.

Although he still did not dream, he'd wake up suddenly, his mind full of the sight of her – that long hair, the slim, slender throat. He'd feel his fingers trembling, as if from an old disease. He knew the disease, sweet and precious, that had been muted and  slumbering these past three years. He resisted, however, the thought of communicating with her. He was afraid of what would happen if they met, even in this place. And his long-range plans would fall apart. _Patience,_ he told himself, _patience._

His patience ran out three days later. He'd crossed off another day on the calendar, nine days remaining in his sentence. Stepping out of his room, he was startled to see Sonny Boy standing at the end of the corridor. Prisoners were free to wander the hallways and recreation areas at certain times of the day, but no one ever came near Louis. He discouraged visitors, always kept himself aloof, turned off gestures of friendship with a cold, calculating look.

Sonny Boy stood alone down near the red exit sign, his back to Louis, the door half opened, his shoulders hunched forward as he looked outside. Was Sonny Boy spying on someone?  Or waiting for another prisoner to come along? A secret  rendezvous?

Fingers trembling, Louis glided cautiously toward Sonny Boy, his sneakers noiseless on the hardwood floor. Was tenderness possible with someone other than a girl? Could the need that kept him awake at night be fulfilled in another way? _Crazy, crazy,_ he told himself  as he approached Sonny Boy. _I won't do it._ But kept getting closer, closer.

Louis was upon Sonny Boy the way a cat pounces on a mouse. Hands  around his throat, the smell of Sonny Boy, sweat and aftershave in his nostrils. Although Sonny Boy was small and thin, he showed surprising strength as he squirmed and struggled, twisting and turning, the strange sounds of survival coming from his throat. Yet Louis took his time, letting him struggle, exulting in this contact, at least, with flesh and bone.

As Sonny Boy went limp in his arms, Louis realized the futility of what he was doing. There was no intimacy in this act, no tenderness at all. The horror of what would would happen to him if Sonny Boy should die swept over him as he looked down at the boy's still face. Relieved, he saw his eyes fluttering a bit. He placed his hand over Sonny Boy's eyes, hoping that he would not be recognized.

As Sonny Boy began to struggle again, trying to rise to his feet, letting out a stream of the swear words Louis hated, that terrible _F_ word flying out with spittle from his mouth, Louis found a way out of this situation. „Leave C-Note alone.“ A stroke of genius, Louis told himself, providing a motive for the attack other than the real one. „Understand?“ Louis asked, voice hoarse and strained.

Sonny Boy nodded, then went limp once more in Louis' arms. Louis cradled him gently. Looked around: no one in sight. He closed the door. Then checked Sonny Boy's pulse, gratified to feel its feeble movement.

* * *

 

 

There were no repercussions from the assault. Business as usual in the classroom, at mealtimes in the cafeteria, the athletic field and gym. Louis saw the Señorita two days in succession but she did not look his way. He noticed that Sonny Boy and C-Note did not come into contact with each other, sat at different tables at mealtimes. At the end of the midday meal three days later, he saw Sonny Boy summon a fat, slow-moving kid called the Bulk to his table. He indicated that the Bulk should return his tray to the service table. Which the Bulk did eagerly, moving quickly despite the weight he carried.

The next day, C-Note L eviathan brushed by Louis as they walked to the cafeteria. „I owe you one, Ice Man,“ he drawled.

 

* * *

 

_Watch your step._

That's what C-Note had written in the note. Payback time. Louis thought immediately of Lieutenant Sheppard, knowing now why he had not accepted Friday as the day of Louis' release. Because he intended to prevent Louis from leaving.

Louis looked at the calendar. Three days to go. Three days to get through, to be on his guard. He had memorized C-Note's message, and he ran the words through his mind. _Don't be provoked._ Which meant someone would try to provoke him. His sentence would be  extended and his freedom denied if he responded to provocation and  got into trouble as a result. If more trouble followed – incidents in a facility could quickly escalate – he could be transferred, when he reached eighteen, to an adult institution. Which meant state prison, a chilling prospect.

At dinner time that evening, as he stood in line, holding his tray with his utensils on  it, he was pushed from behind. A slight push, a nudge. His first instinct was to turn around and push back. But he did neither. The gentle push on his back reverberated throughout his body, reminding him that he had hardly been touched by another person in his years at the facility.

He braced himself, prepared for another nudge, knowing that this is what C-Note meant by being provoked. Hunching his shoulders, he shuffled forward and received a real push this time, sending him against Redrum, ahead of him in line. Redrum turned, staring at Louis in mild disbelief. Redrum was a sleek and elegant Hispanic, quick to laugh and smile, never in trouble.

„Hey, man,“ he said. „Whass goin' on? You drunk or somethin'?“

„Sorry,“ Louis muttered, rearranging the utensils on his tray.

„Thass awright, man,“ Redrum said , shrugging, facing forward again.

A push this time caught Louis by surprise with its intensity. A foot was shoved between his legs and sent him crashing to the floor, the tray clattering on the tile, the utensils scattering away.

Grateful for C-Note's warning, Louis kept himself in check, curbing his impulse to rise to his feet and strike back at his attacker. Instead, he remained on his knees, reaching for the knife and fork, the spoon out of sight. At that instant he was kicked in the spine, thrown humiliatingly flat on his stomach, sharp pain like an arrow shooting up his back to his neck. He closed his eyes against the pain, sensing guys falling away, not wanting to get involved. On his knees again, he finally looked up at his assailant. A new guy, someone he'd  never seen before, a sneer on his lips, pop eyes bulging from their sockets.

„What's going on here?“

The voice belonged to Stephen, an old guard whose voice still held a hint of Irish brogue.

Louis looked up at him. „I slipped, fell down,“ he muttered.

Doubt crossed Stephen's face. His eyes narrowed as he looked from Louis to Pop Eyes and  back again.

„Well, watch your step,“ he admonished Louis but looked at Pop Eyes. „I want no  trouble here ...“

As Louis got to his feet, his eyes met the pop eyes of his attacker. They revealed nothing. His  face was a blank, no hate, no dislike, nothing. Like hired hit man.

Louis fixed the utensils in place on the tray, anger pulsing in his cheeks. He was not really angry at Pop Eyes but at Lieutenant Sheppard, whom he knew had engineered the attack. Pop Eyes was merely a puppet. Stephen had stopped the assault, which indicated that the guards were not a part of the plot. Louis was grateful for this. He could handle other prisoners, even an animal like Pop Eyes, but he was not immune to the guards.

As he ate his dinner, isolated as usual, the food tasteless in his mouth, he wondered when the next attempt would happen.

Once again, C-note came to the rescue.

He heard a knock on the door of his room just before Lights Out. Leaping to his feet, aware that he had been lying tensely in bed, he placed his ear against the door and heard a muffled voice:

„It's C-Note.“

Turning the knob, he opened the door a crack, apprehensive, wondering if he could trust even C-Note.

„Tomorrow, at lunchtime. A riot in the cafeteria. Keep out of it ...“

Louis listened for details but there was only silence, followed by C-Note's departing footsteps.

He realized he had no choice but to trust C-Note. Apparently, he still felt he owed Louis a debt.

 

* * *

 

Later, as he was lying in bed, in the dark, excitement sizzling in his veins, his mind caught fire. How do you keep away  from a riot? His days and nights in the facility had been a long succession of routines that had made few demands on either his body or his mind. Now, a problem had arisen and his mind was actually working: probing, analyzing. Exhilarated, he pictured the cafeteria, brought up images from old prison movies. Overturned tables, prisoners fighting each other, plates sailing through the air, rushing guards. Then: quarantine, punishment. How do you avoid all that? His thoughts were like pinpricks as if his brain had come alive after a long slumber.

The next morning during the ten o'clock class in social studies, Louis approached the instructor's desk.

„Asking permission to go to the infirmary,“ he said to the pipe-smoking teacher, who always wore a tweed jacket as if he taught in a fancy college.

„Not feeling well, Tomlinson?“ he asked, his voice also deep and resonant like a professor's.

„Spent half the night with diarrhea and throwing up,“ Louis said.

The instructor filled out a permission slip. „Better get it taken care of. You don't want to walk out of here Friday a sick boy.“

The infirmary was staffed by a male nurse by the name of  David, who took care of routine cases. Doctors were on call for more serious illnesses or injuries. David liked pretending that he was a doctor, a stethoscope dangling on his chest. Cheerful, humming, he took Louis' temperature and blood pressure. „All's normal,“ he announced. He listened sympathetically to Louis' symptoms.

„Take it easy the rest of the day,“ he said. „Mylanta should do the trick.“

Louis pretended to stagger as he stood up, reaching out for David's shoulder for support.

David, concerned, asked, „What's the matter?“

„Dizzy,“ Louis said.

David studied him closely, „Okay, why not lie down for a while? You probably don't want lunch, anyway. Stay here awhile ... I'll keep an eye on you ...“

Wonderful, Louis thought, as he made his way shakily to a cot near the window.

„You're probably dehydrated,“ David said. „I'll keep you supplied with liquids ...“

Louis let himself carefully down on the cot, exaggerating his actions, but careful not to overact, keeping a delicate balance.

„I'll be right here if you need anything,“ David said, in his best bedside manner, handing Louis a glass of water.

Louis gave himself up to the luxury of relaxation. He knew that if he survived today without incident, he would have defeated the old cop's plans to keep him incarcerated indefinitely. Tomorrow, his routines of departure, all of the activity under the supervision of guards and facility officials. The old cop would be foolish to try anything on the final day.

Eyes half closed, Louis watched the big clock on the wall, tracing the progress of the second hand. Two other prisoners came in for treatment. Louis shut them out, using his old method of removing himself from the scene, isolating himself from his surroundings. Except for the clock.

The clock reached noon, and Louis raised himself on one elbow, breathless with anticipation. A minute passed, two.

As David approached with another glass of water, the sound of the siren filled the air, a frantic howl that caused David to stumble, spilling water on the floor. The floor seemed to tremble, bottles rattled on the shelves.

 _Failed again, Lieutenant,_ Louis said silently, settling back in bed, the siren like a crazy symphony. He turned away from David, hiding the smile of triumph on his face.

That evening, after dinner, the Distributor handed him a note.

Still on guard, Louis shot him a questioning look: _Who's it from?_

„I don't know,“ the Distributor said. „It was in the usual place. I always collect at the receiving end.“ Fast-talking as usual. His hard face softened. „No charge. A going-away present ...“

Louis nodded his appreciation, flustered a bit, unaccustomed to accepting favors that weren't earnd.

In his room he unfolded the note. Delicate handwriting, blue ink, the paper faintly scented. Without salutation, the note read:

_I saw you looking at me. I was looking at you, too. My name is Valeria Martinez. I live in Barton, I'm out of here soon. Call me. I'll be waiting._

Her telephone number followed.

He drew the envelope across his nostrils, inhaling the faint scent he could not identify but that smelled beautifully feminine. He pressed his lips against the paper, seeking whatever tenderness it contained. Her long black hair and slender throat came to his mind.

Although he knew the risk of retaining something that could become evidence, he could not make himself throw the note away. He folded it as small as possible and slipped it into his wallet.

At the window, he stretched out his arms, raised his head high, arching his back. In twenty-four hours he would be free.

Free. To follow his destiny. To pursue them all.


	9. I'm Thinking Of You All The While

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love is not only blind but deaf"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally guys, after a really long time, i updated a new chapter (Harry's POV). I hope you like it and you didn't give up on me and this fic. I've been really busy and I couldn't have updated sooner and i'm sorry, but i'm back now. Enjoy yourselves.

Here is why I am fixated on that face and those eyes of Louis Tomlinson on television.

Two days after my twelfth birthday, I was wandering lonely as a cloud like in a poem we read in English, out at the railroad tracks, thinking about my birthday and how my mother arrived home late because she got involved with some guy at a bar and drank too much and forgot to buy the birthday cake.

Then I told myself: _Snap out of it. A birthday cake is not a big thing anymore. You are no longer a child but almost a teenager._ A cake was too sweet, anyway, and I was outgrowing sweet stuff, having a taste lately for chees and redskin peanuts and potato chips instead of chocolate, which I used to crave all the time. So, at twelve, I should not have been sad about not having a cake, and as far as a birthday present goes, my mother would suddenly remember and be full of regret and shame and would buy me something spectacular on payday.

We were living that summer in a small town in New York State and I hadn't made friends with anyone because my mother said her job at a resort restaurant was temporary and we'd be moving again soon. As I walked on the rails, balancing myself precariously, I looked up and saw a guy and girl walking beside the tracks, ahead of me. They were holding hands. They stopped once and he kissed her, gathering her into his arms. Then they disappeared into the woods.

I followed the tracks all the way into town and passed time wandering a strip mall of discount stores and places to buy my fishing gear. On the way back, I paused at an abondoned railroad shack and suddenly he was there, the guy who'd been with the girl, and he was looking at me, one hand in his pocket and the other smoothing out his brown hair.

He was a neat dresser, not sloppy like the usual kids with their baggy clothes. I kept walking on the rail, getting closer to him, and he smiled as if admiring my skill at balancing. Which was silly, of course, but I loved his smile, which made his eyes seem like they were dancing. His eyes were blue like the surface of a pond with the sun shining on it.

„Hi,“ he said, in a careless voice like he was throwing the word away.

I didn't reply but smiled back at him, my smile matching his, as if we were suddenly connected.

„What's your name, boy ?“

 _Boy._ Not _kid._

„Harry.“

„Nice name.“ A funny expression on his  face now, studying me, as if trying to memorize my features.

„How old are you, Harry ?“

„Thirteen. I was twelve years old only two days ago.“

„Happy birthday.“

Still smiling but his eyes inspecting me now, from top to bottom and top again.

„Did you get a lot of presents?“  As if he was not really interested but only being polite.

„All kinds of stuff,“ I said. „My mother is a nut about birthdays. She always goes overboard. A big cake and candles to blow out. One year she hired a clown to perform at my party, another we celebrated at McDonald's with all the kids in the neighborhood.“

I was talking fast because I was lying, of course. If you talk fast, it's easier to lie. And I always liked lying because you can let your imagination go and don't have to stick with the facts.

His smile changed, became softer, with a kind of sadness in it.

„Didn't you get any presents at all? Didn't you have a cake at least ?“ His voice gentle, tender.

At that moment, I thought, _He knew me, he can see right through my soul,_ and I felt as if we had been friends for a long time.

„I don't need a cake, anyway,“ I said. „That's for little kids. I used to like cakes once but not anymore. I'd just as soon have a bag of peanuts.“

He just kept looking at me.

„My mother is very nice,“ I said. „She loves me very much. She just gets forgetful once in a while.“

He shrugged my words away, lifting his shoulders, and a lock of brown hair fell across his forehead. He pushed it back in place with his beautiful fingers.

„You shouldn't be out here all by yourself,“ he said. „What are you doing here, anyway?“ As if suddenly angry with my presence.

„It's a shortcut.“

I almost told him I was wandering lonely as a cloud, thinking that he might understand. Instead, I said, „What are _you_ doing here?“

I was about to ask him about the girl when the roar of motorcycle engines burst through the air, coming at us as if we were under attack, dust kicking up, brakes screeching.

Five or six bikes pulled up and surrounded us, the riders with leather jackets and brass studs, dark glasses hiding their eyes.

„Hey, little boy,“ one of them called to me, a rider with red shaggy hair leaking out of his helmet.

Their engines purred now, the bikes slanted, biker's leg angled on the dirt, dust settling, the bikes like mechanical horses under them, straining to gallop away.

A biker with a tattoo of a coiled snake on his arm leaned away from his handlebars and reached for me, his glove black and gleaming with brass knuckles.

„Leave him alone,“ the guy called out.

The bikers turned their attention to him.

The guy was outnumbered and he looked frail and vulnerable standing alone, but his eyes were hard now and not shining but glittering and his chin was firm and his lips thin against his teeth.

The biker with the shaggy hair squinted at him and spit something brown and juicy onto the dirt.

„We was just fooling around,“ he said. „We got better things to do ...“

He lifted his hand, signaling to the others, and stepped down hard on the pedal, the motorcycle buckling under him, the front wheel leaping in the air.

„Let's go,“ he bellowed, his voice hoarse and rough but clear above the roaring of the engines.

More dust raised, as if a bomb had exploaded, engines booming, war cries and yelps, and away they went, kicking up dirt, whooping and hollering.

As the dust settled, I began to cough, my throat dry and scratchy. I looked at him through the dust, like a brown mist, wanting to tell him that he'd been very brave. Gallant, in fact. I loved _gallant,_ an old-fashioned word that you only see in books.

„Better get going, Harry,“ he said. „Before something else happens.“

His words and his voice stopped me and I did not move. Probably could not move. Because his eyes were not dancing anymore and the gentleness, the sadness were back in them.

„What else could happen?“ I asked, wanting to add, _I'm safe with you. How could anything else happen?_

„Get going,“ he said, dismissing me, as if no longer interested, discarding me like a used Kleenex.

He turned away, flexing his fingers, then slapping them against his thighs, as if his fingers were apart from his body and he had no control over them. „You shouldn't come out in the woods like this,“ he said, scolding, as he looked over his shoulder at me.

I started walking away, feeling more lonely than ever, lonelier even than a cloud, as if I had lost something dear to me that I would never find again.

After a few paces, I stopped and looked back, but he was gone and the spot where he had been standing was a lonesome place.

I ran all the way home, like the little piggy in the nursery rhyme, not crying _wee-wee-wee_ but hot tears on my cheeks, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Now those eyes of Louis Tomlinson on television have caught and trapped me and I know that I must stay in Wickburg and track him down and end this new fixation the way I ended my fixation with Throb.

Remembering that day by the railroad tracks, I know that this fixation on Louis Tomlinson is more than that, it's as if we made a connection that was broken when the bikers came, and that we must meet again. He was so gallant when he stood against the bikers that day, protecting me like a knight without armor.

I close the door of the diner, leaving behind the smell of fried food and the harsh white lights and the giggling of the girls, and I step out into the streets of Wickburg.

Wickburg is like coming home again because my mother and I lived here for almost three years, the longest we ever stayed in one place.

We lived on the third floor of the three-decker on The Hill, looking down on the city. I didn't have any best friends in Wickburg but a gang of older guys and girls let me follow them around if I kept my distance and my mouth shut. The reason they didn't mind my company is because they'd send me into stores to cop stuff for them. I was successful at copping stuff because I looked sweet and innocent, Roy Tyson said. Roy was the leader of the gang. He was tall and good-looking.

Roy said I should go to Hollywood and be a child star. The gang was like a family, with Roy almost a father to us all. A small plump girl named Donna absolutely adored him, ready to do his slightest bidding. Bantam, a skinny runt of a kid who pretended to be tough, acted like Roy's bodyguard, always walking ahead of us, like he was scouting the territory, clearing the way for Roy.

Anyway, Roy and the gang taught me about living on the streets, the safe places and the bad places, taught me how to break into locked cars, showed me that secret doorway for the ConCenter stars, and told me about Harmony House. That's my destination as I walk through the twilight streets of Wickburg as the sun disappears behind the city's jagged skyline.

Harmony House is where pregnant teenagers end up when they have no place else to go. They don't yell at you or preach to you there. In fact they make you feel special. The only problem was I am a boy and I can't get pregnant, maybe they would let me stay couple of days if I help them around. I heard all this when Donna became pregnant and was thrown out of her house by her father, who realized he couldn't beat her up anymore in her condition. After she had the baby and gave it up for adoption – she never told us whether it was a boy or a girl – she described how wonderful she was treated at Harmony House, and I sat on the edges of the gang, thinking about that baby and about Donna. But i also felt bad for her. She always looked as if someone was about to hit her when she did something stupid like flirting with the new young cop on the beat, which called his attention to the gang. But Roy never hit her hard, just a slap or two.

I make my way toward Harmony House, hurrying against the descending darkness. I have enough money to stay in one of the motels on Lower Main but I don't want to spend money unnecessarily and those motels are seedy and rundown looking. Places like the Marriot and Sheraton are off-limits because I don't have a suitcase and do not look at all like a career boy. I look exactly like what I am: a runaway.

A woman opens the door a minute or two after I ring the doorbell. She has gray hair like a grandmother but a young, sweet face and it's hard to tell how old she is. She looks at me confused and asks „Can I help you, young man?“ On my way to Harmony House I tried to come up with a good lie, so I tell her „I hope you can, see mrs., my dad is getting married to another woman in 10 days and he asked me if I could come to the wedding, but I live 120km away from here and my mum doesn't own a car, so i've been hitch-hiking and walking all the way to here. It's not the first time, there's just been an accident, on my way to there i've been robbed. So I don't have  enough money left to go to a motel and it's also getting dark, and I don't really feel comfortable with stopping cars and asking for a ride. I've just, i've heard you could help me, so I was just wondering ...“

„Welcome to Harmony House,“ she smiles and says. As she leads me to an office off the main hallway, she tells me that her name is Phyllis Kentall and that I can call her Phyllis, all the girls do. She sits at a desk and writes down my name and address, which I fake, of course. I always use the name Julian Neff  when I go on the road and have a card made out in that name, kind of card that comes in a wallet you buy. She smiles at me and her teeth are white and glossy, like her string of pearls.

„You look hot and tired, Julian,“ she says, closing the book. „I'll take you upstairs, where you can bathe“ – such a nice, soothing word – „and then you can come down and join the other girls in the television room.“

She touches my elbow as we leave the office and pats my shoulder as she leaves me at the door to my room. Handing me a key, she warns, „Keep your room locked at all times. The girls here are very nice, but it's better to be safe than sorry.“

The room is neat and plain, venetian blinds on the window and a white bedspread and no rug on the floor. I fill the bathtub and soak in the warm water, thinking of the long day, from the time I hitched a ride with Mr. Richard White to that terrible kiss with Throb, and I tell myself I must find an envelope and send the credit cards and license back to Mr. White. In the bed, I fall asleep so suddenly that it's like somebody turned off the lights in my mind.

Nobody wakes me the next morning, and I sleep until almost ten o'clock. Downstairs in the kitchen, a plump, pleasant woman introduces herself as Mrs. Plimpton and pours me a glass of milk and fixes me a bowl of Special K. I prefer donuts and coffee for breakfast but thank her anyway. She hums as she keeps busy, although she does not look like she belongs there. The kitchen is all glass and stainless steel, amd Mrs. Plimpton wears a yellow apron decorated with daisies and bustles around like she is a mother of a bunch of small children instead of a cook for pregnant teenagers.

Later, I wander into the large living room and meet three girls in various stages of pregnancy. Virginia, Sabrina, and Liza. Virginia's stomach is enormous, and she sits with her legs spread out and her face, the color of the mahogany piano in the corner, is moist with perspiration as she lifts a hand in greeting, as if every movement is an effort. Sabrina does not look pregnant – she's tiny and dark, with delicate features like a figurine in a gift shopp, and I wonder if she is faking it. Her eyes inspect me coolly. Liza is so huge that she probably _always_ looks pregnant, and her smile is as wide as doorway.

They are watching an old _I love Lucy_ on television, and turn back to Lucy dressed up as a bag lady as soon as we introduce ourselves. Mrs. Kentall joins us, and after Lucy has managed to calm Desi down at the end of the program, she beckons me to follow her into her office. She seats herself behind her desk, looks at me for a few heartbeats, then says: „You're not going to your dad's wedding , are you, Julian ?“

„That's right,“ I say, the color warm in my cheeks.

„And your name's not Julian, either, is it ?“

I nod my head. There is a time to lie and a time to tell the truth, and Mrs. Kentall is too smart and wise for me to keep on pretending.

„You're a runaway, aren't you?“

I let my silence provide the answer.

„What's your name?“ she asks.

„Harry.“

I don't tell her my family name because I want to remain anonymous, which is the only way I can keep my freedom, even in Harmony House.

„How old are you, Harry?“

„Sixteen.“

„Why did you run away?“ Before I can answer, she asks „Did you run away from an abuse situation?“

Her voice is gentle, and I realize that she's trying to make it easier for me to tell my story.

I tell her about my mother and Des and how Des is a nice guy, good to my mother, and how he touched me on top but very tenderly and how I was afraid that something would happen to hurt my mother and spoil it all for her.

„Your mother must be worried,“ she says.

„I left her a note. She thinks I'm staying with friends here in Wickburg. We used to live here awhile back.“

„Have you called her since you arrived?“

I shake my head.

„Don't you think you should call her? Tell her you're safe?“

„I was going to call her soon.“ A kind of lie: I planned to call her sooner or later but later rather than sooner.

„Tell you what, Harry,“ she says. „If you call your mother, I can let you stay here for a few days. I need someone to help around the place – make the beds, dust and clean – and give Mrs. Plimpton a hand in the kitchen. The pregnant girls are not required to help out. I can only pay minimum wages, but you'll have a place to sleep and food to eat.“

„Thank you,“ I say, hoping that my voice conveys how much I appreciate staying at Harmony House. Now I can make it my headquarters while I pursue my fixation on Louis Tomlinson.


	10. Do You Remember the First Time?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „I'd like to be one hundred percent evil, but I can't.“ - Richard Ramirez

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I never wrote anything faster than this chapter, I hope you like it :)

Louis Tomlinson woke as usual, instantly alert, as if his slumbering mind had been impatiently waiting for this moment. He lay in bed, arms straight at his sides, the same position in which he had fallen asleep.

He knew immediately that something was wrong. Not wrong, different. The sun streamed into the room from his left instead of his right. Ruffled white curtains instead of the facility's beige venetian blinds. Paintings on the walls: summer and winter scenes like the kind you see on calendars.

Aromas filled the air, a woman's delicate scent, perfume or soap and, finally, the invading smell of coffee brewing and something in the oven, corn muffins maybe, that Aunt Sarah baked for him when he visited her as a small boy.

The smells, the white curtains, the pictures on the walls were such a contrast to the bare, antiseptic room of the facility that he was almost dizzy as he sat on the edge of the bed.

In the kitchen he enjoyed the warm corn muffins soaked with melting butter. Sugar and cream in the coffee, almost too sweet after the black acidtasting coffee of the past three years.

Aunt Sarah hovered near the table, wearing a fancy white apron, lace at the edges. He concentrated on the food, aware of being watched, unlike the facility, where he'd felt invisible most of the time.

„I'm so glad you're here, Louis,“ Aunt Sarah said, pouring more coffee.

She was either a terrific actress or actually happy for his presence in her house. It did not matter which. This house was a place for him to pass the time he needed to prepare himself for what lay ahead.

Last night, after dinner, they had sat down to watch television together. A news report flashed the scene earlier that day when he'd left the facility, crowds greeting his departure, followed by a shot of the house in which they were sitting. _Weird,_ he thought, _looking at TV which is looking back at you as you sit there._ An announcer's voice said, „We tried to talk to Sarah Forman, the aunt with whom Louis Tomlinson will be living, but she refused to comment on how it will feel to have a murd –„  She reached for the remote control and could not find it, and by the time she located it, the word _murderer_ had long since blazed in the room.

„I'm sorry, Louis,“ she said as the tube went dark.

„Don't be sorry, Aunt Sarah. And don't be afraid. I'd never do anything to hurt you. Or make you sorry you took me in.“ Trying not to think of Rudy, the canary.

Louis knew that he would never harm Aunt Sarah. First of all, there would be no tenderness in the act. Second, he would be spelling his own doom if he did such a thing. When he stepped out of the facility yesterday, he had spotted the old lieutenant in a doorway across the street, a solitary figure apart from everyone else: the television crews, the guards, the crowd of people gathering either to support or to protest his freedom. He knew immediately that he would have to be extra careful, would have to bide his time, would need patience. But he also knew that the lieutenant could not follow him forever. Other cases would claim his attention. As for the crowd, they would tire of interfering with his life after a while and go back to their own petty, stupid lives. Another big story would come along. An explosion killing innocent people, preferably children, or the assassination of a beloved figure would take the spotlight away from him sooner or later and free him to do what he needed to do.

Meanwhile, the flurry of activity caused by his departure privately amused him as he ducked away from the television cameras and ignored the questions hurled at him as he crossed the sidewalk. He paid no attention to the cries from the crowd and glanced, without expression, at all the signs – WE LUV U, LOUIS . . . DROP DEAD, KILLA – even though they irritated him. He hated words that were purposely misspelled, like _lite_ for _light, brite_ for _bright,_ and, of course, _luv_ for _love._

A black car, hired by his Aunt Sarah, waited for him at the curb, and a driver in a black suit held the door open for him, as the crowd fell back, giving him room, resigned to the obvious fact that he was not going to talk. A teenage girl with a daisy tattooed above one eye flung herself at him and kissed him on the cheek, throwing him off balance, her perfume strong and sickening. „I love you, Louis,“ she called as guards pulled her away, and he wiped moisture from his cheek, relieved that she did not wear lipstick and had not left her mark on him. Before stepping inside the car, he paused and looked at the crowd, ready for this moment he had anticipated for such a long time. The crowd fell silent, and stopped shoving and pushing. He looked around, savoring the moment, the dazzle of sunshine on windowpanes, the sweetness of the air as he inhaled. Then he smiled, the sad, wistful smile he had practiced before the mirror, the little-boy smile that he knew would appear later on television screens and the front pages of newspapers. A smile for all the stupid people out there with bleeding hearts for killers. Then he slipped into the backseat of the car.

After the driver closed the door, he could not resist glancing out the window at the doorway across the street. The lieutenant was still there, a frail old man who looked as if a gust of wind would blow him away. Louis gave him a short, sharp salute of triumph, then sank back into the seat as the driver pulled away.

Now in Aunt Sarah's house, he finished breakfast with the last swallow of the sweet coffee, disappointed to realize that somehow he had adapted to the bitter brew of the facility. He looked up at his aunt, really seeing her for the first time since his childhood. She was tall and thin, a combination of sharp angles: jawline, cheekbones, and nose. But her eyes were mild, light blue, and always seemed as if dazzled by light, on the edge of tears.

She had never married, wore fancy dresses and high heels even when she went off to work at Essex Plastics, where she was supervisor of the assembling department. She went to the hairdresser every Friday evening. Bright lipstick, thickly applied, disguised her thin lips. She wore high heels even when she did the housework, and she clicked across the floor in the high heels now as she went to the window in the living room.

„They're out there again,“ she called to Louis.

He joined her at the window but was careful to keep out of sight. Three vans, emblazoned with television logos, were parked at the curb across the street. Thirty or so people, young and old, milled around on the sidewalk, carrying the usual signs. Some of them stared glumly at the house, eyes dull and resentful. Others wore eager expressions, smiled and waved, in the hope probably that Louis was looking out.

 A bald-headed man wearing a white T-shirt and jeans stepped out of a television van and aimed a camcorder at the house, focusing finally at the window where Louis and Aunt Sarah stood. Aware of zoom lenses, Louis drew away and pulled his aunt with him.

„What's the matter with all those people?“ Aunt Sarah said. „Don't they have better things to do?“

„They'll go away after a while,“ Louis said.

_And so will I._

„Come with me, Louis,“ she said, leading him to the parlor. They sat across from each other, a small strongbox on the coffee table. She reached into the box and pulled out a blue bankbook, which she handed to him.

„I deposited the insurance money at First National downtown,“ she said. „As you know, Louis, I was executor of the estate and also the trustee. The money is in both our names, but it's yours to do with as you please. A bit over fifteen thousand dollars.“

He was not surprised. He had come upon the insurance policies a few weeks before dispatching Mark and his mother.

She handed him three official-looking certificates, saying, „Mark and your mother had checking and savings accounts. I invested that money in certificates of deposit. I timed them to mature and be available to you on your release from that awful place. Three certificates – now worth more than three thousand dollars each.“

„Thank you, Aunt Sarah,“ he said, „I want to share this money with you.“ Knowing, of course, that she'd refuse the offer.

„Nonsense,“ she replied, as expected. „I have more than enough. My job pays me handsomely and I have a fine pension plan for my later years. This money is yours to give you a good start in your new life.“ She seemed to hesitate, pursing the thin lips, looking away from Louis, then looking back.

He knew what was coming.

„What do you expect to do in that new life, Louis?“

He was ready for her.

„I'd like to stay here for the next week or two. Until I pass my driver's test. I took lessons at the facility. I want to buy a van and do some camping this summer. I checked out colleges at the facility and hope to enroll in one in the fall. Either Boston or Worcester. Or maybe a community college somewhere in the state. I want to make something of myself.“

He smiled, hoping The Charm of the shy smile added sincerity to this little speech he had carefully rehearsed.

„That's just fine, Louis,“ she said. „It's good to be ambitious. And you can stay with me as long as you wish.“

Relief was obvious in her voice, coming from the knowledge that he would not be a permanent guest.

 

* * *

 

When Aunt Sarah drove off to work every day, she ignored the crowds across the street. Louis remained inside the house, killing time, watching boring talk shows on television in which transvestites seemed to be the most popular guests, and game shows where people won speedboats they would never use or went into hysterics about winning a new kitchen set. After a few days, he did not bother watching anymore.

Heat held the house in a suffocating grip. Aunt Sarah could not stand air-conditioning, or „artificial air,“ as she called it, saying that it aggravated her sinuses. Louis wandered the rooms as if he were the only living thing in a museum. He opened the windows once in a while to allow fresh air, however hot, into the house.

The street was seldom without some kind of activity, although lulls occurred from time to time. In the first few days, television crews showed up, focused camcorders on the house while newscasters stood before cameras talking into space. He would later see them on the local news. Newspaper people also made regular visits, interviewing some of the spectators, scribbling in their notebooks. They occasionally crossed the street and rang the doorbell. Waited. Rang again. Then gave up. Louis never answered the doorbell or the telephone.

Once in a while, a parade of cars streamed by, horns blowing and brakes squealing. School vacations had begun, and kids either rallied to his cause or protested his freedom. Louis resented their intrusions, because they kept interest in him alive and their pictures turned up later in the newspaper or on television, brandishing the stupid signs that canceled each other out. Sometimes, when the street became suddenly deserted, he opened the door and stepped out on the front porch. He'd look with disgust at the debris left behind by the crowds – candy wrappers, McDonald's cups and paper bags, soda-pop cans. _The slobs are taking over the world,_ he thought contemptuously.

The _Wickburg Telegram_  was deposited at the back door every morning by a carrier he never saw. Boredom led him to read the stories at first – _Teen Murderer Refuses to Talk._ After a while he ignored them, because they were mostly rehashes of earlier stories with nothing new added. He sensed that the publicity was coming to an end when he saw the headline _Is Louis Tomlinson in a New Kind of Prison?_ Reading the story that speculated on what his life must be like in his aunt's house – what television shows he watched, what books he might be reading – he realized that the writers were stretching and running out of ideas. Which pleased him.

What the newspeople did not know was that Louis managed to leave the house occasionally. His aunt became a willing conspirator, driving the car while he sat, cramped and crouching on the floor of the backseat, sitting up only when they were out on the highway. They went on shopping excursions in the strip malls along Route 9. Bought camping equipment and clothes. „Isn't this fun?“ Aunt Sarah asked, picking out an orange shirt that Louis knew he would never wear.

They checked used-car lots for a minivan, Louis wearing a baseball cap with the visor pulled low over his eyes and dark glasses. After three excursions, he found exactly what he was looking for. A nondescript beige minivan, six years old with low mileage. No air-conditioning and a manual shift, not even a radio, but luxuries were not important to him. His aunt placed a deposit on the van while Louis waited in the car. The transaction would be completed when he received his driver's license.

His big moment each day came with the delivery of mail, when he looked for a letter from the Registry of Motor  Vehicles announcing the day and hour of his driver's test. He had submitted his application for the test before his release from the facility, having been advised of a two- or three-week waiting period before he'd be notified of his appointment.

He was running out of patience.

 

* * *

 

Suddenly, he had trouble falling asleep at night, tossing and turning in bed, unable to find a comfortable position. His brain and body clashed in an endless battle, visions crowding his mind, keeping him high-noon awake while his body moved restlessly, as if propelled by the visions.

The vision: soft feminine bodies, long black hair flowing to pale shoulders, glimpses of Rachel Fisher and Elizabeth Ann Tanner and, finally, the Señorita. Her note blazed in his mind: _Call me. I'll be waiting,_ like neon-lit letters.

He sat up in bed, sweating, breathing hard, as if he had just completed one push-up too many. Looked toward the window at a slant of streetlight to establish his reality in the bedroom. He had never had trouble sleeping before. Always dropped off as soon as he closed his eyes,  waking up suddenly in the morning after a dreamless sleep.

He left the bed and went to the window, looked out at the backyard drenched with moonlight, giving everything, bushes and trees and the picket fence, a sheen of silver. The image of the Señorita  blossomed in his mind. He wondered what kind of perfume she wore, what other scents emanated from her body. Wondered how her flesh would respond to his touch, whether her skin would be warm or cool or moist with perspiration. Her eyes were dark, but she'd always been too far away from him to know whether they were brown or black. He preffered black, to match the sweet flow of hair to her shoulders. He imagined looking deep into those eyes as he moved his hands across her flesh, fingertips tracing the lovely landscape of her body until he reached . . .

He turned away, did not allow his thoughts to go further, had to escape the agony of desire unfulfilled, unanswered. Danger in these thoughts. Must not think of Señorita too often. Not yet. He pictured the old lieutenant out there somewhere, in the shadows, around the corner, watching, waiting.

 

* * *

 

He saw the boy for the first time the next afternoon, a Saturday, his aunt resting after vacuuming the parlor rug, sipping tea as she watched an old movie on television. Bored and restless, as usual, he prowled the rooms, pausing now and then to glance at the TV set. All the women in the movie wore crazy hats and long skirts and smoked endlessly.

At the window, he looked out at the street, dimly angry at himself for giving in to his curiosity. Not curiosity really but merely a desire for distraction. The crowd had thinned to a few stragglers in the heat of the afternoon. No television vans in sight – in fact, TV crews showed up only intermittently now, for which he was grateful.

A sudden movement drew his attention to the big weeping willow tree on the lawn of the  house across the street. A boy stood partially obscured by the long, drooping branches that almost reached to the grass. He caught a glimpse of his face peering through the branches. He suddenly stepped out onto the sidewalk, curly brown hair, pale green shirt.

His face evoked a distant memory, just out of reach. Had he seen him before?

He waited for a commercial to interrupt the movie that Aunt Sarah was watching. Then, hoping the boy would not go away, he asked his aunt if she owned a pair of binoculars.

„I have opera glasses,“ she said. „I don't know why they call them opera glasses. I've never been to the opera.“

She produced the small black binoculars from the dining room cupboard, and did not ask any questions.

Louis went upstairs to the spare bedroom at the front of the house. Keeping to the outer edge of the window, he trained the opera glasses on the boy, who still stood in front of the weeping willow. His brown hair caught the sunlight. His arms were tanned, the skinny jeans thight on his body. He was pretty, plump lips, a boy's face but a man's body.

As Louis studied him through the binoculars, the boy raised his face in Louis' direction, as if offering himself to him. Once again, he evoked a vague memory. He was certain that he had seen the boy before. But where, when?

He lowered the binoculars. Palms wet. The longing for tenderness startled him with its intensity. _What have I been missing all these years?_ He had always been proud of his control over his mind and body, stiffling his desires and needs. Now, he was unsure of himself. The boy across the street did not attract him like others – he was drawn to dark-eyed, black-haired _girls_ – but his presence evoked his desires, making his nighttime visions of Señorita and the other girls pale by comparison. He could no longer be satisfied with visions and daydreams.

That night in bed, he tossed and turned again, but this time as if a fever raged in his blood. The old lieutenant's words echoed in his mind. _You are incapable of feeling, Louis._

If that was true, then what was this agony that denied him sleep and rest?


	11. I'll remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How would you have it? Every man to his own tastes. Mine is for corpses." - Henri Blot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short one :)

Suddenly there was less activity on the street, fever people showed up and those who did became familiar to him, kids on vacation with nothing better to do or senior citizens who also had time on their hands. Once in a while, a television  van drove up and spent a few minutes scanning the street or interviewing spectators. A young guy in his twenties, obviously a reporter with a camera dangling on his chest and pencils in his lapel pocket, spoke to the onlookers. Louis saw him talking to the boy now and then – obviously attracted to him. The boy did not respond to him and walked away. „Good,“ Louis murmured, for no reason at all.

The telephone did not ring anymore. The ringing had jarred him at first, the sound like assaults on his hearing, disruptive after years at the facility in a room without a phone.

The high point of his day continued to be the delivery of mail. The number of letters had dropped off, and the mail consisted mostly of routine bills for his aunt and an occasional letter from a longtime pen pal in Kensas dating back to her high school days. Louis learned to recognize the purple ink in delicate handwriting. He tossed the mail aside with a grimace when the registry letter did not show up.

 

* * *

 

He was stunned when he picked up the _Wickburg Telegram_ one morning and saw a picture of the boy on the front page. A three-column close-up, in color, showing his face peering out of the limp branches of the weeping willow. The paragraph that accompanied the photograph read:

„Mr. Anonymous“ in the above photo has kept a daily vigil on Webster Avenue, where released murderer Louis Tomlinson, 18, lives with his aunt, Sarah Forman. The boy will not give his name or address, and only smiles enigmatically in answer to most questions. Asked if he had ever met Louis Tomlinson, he replied with a one-word answer: „Once.“

Tomlinson was released recently from the New England Youth Services Facility, where he was incarcerated for three years for the murder of his mother and stepfather. His release has touched off controversy across the state and has led to legislative action calling for juveniles charged with violent crimes to be tried as adults and face stiffer penalties.

The word blazed in Louis' mind. Like a flash of doom. Where had he seen him? And why was he being so misterious about it? That word corroborated his own feeling that he had seen the boy before, but his face did not emerge from his memory. He was sure that he had not seen him at the facility, which meant that they must have met at least three years ago. Studying his photo, he squinted his eyes as if at a painting in museum. He was probably sixteen or seventeen years old now and would have been much younger if they had met before he was sentenced. Probably had freckles, didn't have curls or something. A kid.

He laid the newspaper aside and stood immobile at the kitchen table. The boy represented a threat to all his plans, a threat to his very existence. The picture in the newspaper linked them together in the minds of the public. He was an unknown quantity, and that meant that he could be any number of things coming out of his past to haunt his future.

Angered, frustrated, he crumpled the newspaper in his hands, wanting to destroy the picture, destroy the boy. Then he sighed, placing the page on the table, smoothing the wrinkles. He had to keep the photograph, study it, absorb it into his system. Maybe that way he would remember when they had once met.

That night, he awoke from a sound sleep, surprised to learn from a glance at the digital alarm clock that it was 4:10. Now what? He had never experienced broken sleep before. What had caused him to vault out of a sound sleep?

Sudden knowledge filled his mind.

He knew where he had seen that boy before.

At the railroad tracks.

Years ago.

He remembered, to his horror, exactly the day and the circumstances.

He had just finished with Eni Graves. He laid her down in a thicket near the tracks, waiting for the proper moment to dispose of her body. He had pushed his way through the bush to make certain that he was alone. That's when he encountered the boy, balancing on the rail, looking directly at him, watchfulness in his eyes, as if he had been waiting for him to appear.

How long had he been standing there?

How much had he seen?

He had smiled, a smile impossible to decipher. He remembered talking to him, trying to draw him out. What had they talked about? Something about his birthday. He was thirteen years old – no wonder he had not immediately recognized  him across the street or in the photograph. He recalled now how his heart accelerated as they talked. Two in one day. Two within a few minutes of each other. Almost too beautiful to resist, despite the risk. But – how could he dispose of two of them? He had plans for Eni Graves but not for this unexpected boy. A child, really. Excitement flooded him, however, at the thought of sharing tenderness with a child.

Before he could make a decision, the motorcycle gang roared into view, kicking up dust and dirt, fracturing the intimacy of the moment. One of the cyclists grabbed the boy, and Louis shouted at him, surprising himself by coming to the boy's defense, made bold by  the knowledge of the power he held over life and death. When the bikers had gone, he said goodbye, a bit sadly and reluctantly, to the boy, and sent him on his way, the job of disposing Eni Graves waiting for him in the woods.

But: _Once._

He had now come out of the past like a ghost. He did not believe in ghosts but he believed that this boy represented a threat.

His old refrain beat through his mind: _I've got to get out of here._

But he needed the license first.

 

* * *

 

It all happened the next day.

He awoke to rain drumming against the windowpane, ending the heat wave, although the heat had become so much a part of his existence that it had ceased to bother him.

Looking out the bedroom window at the rain lashing the picket fence and the wind stirring tree branches, he felt rising of his spirits. The rain would keep the last of spectators, the diehards, like the boy, away from the street.

His spirits soared when he checked the mail at mid-morning and found a letter from the Registry of Motor Vehicles. Finally. He opened it carefully, as if there'd be a penalty if he was careless with the envelope.

The time for his driver's test: two days from now, ten o'clock in the morning. Aunt Sarah had promised to take time off to drive him to the registry and accompany him on the test. They'd carry out their usual acts of deception, although there'd be no need if the rain continued.

He held the notification in his hands, gazing at it lovingly, as if it were a passport to exotic places.


	12. Do Not Go Gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „We're not in Wonderland anymore Alice“ - Charles Manson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the really late chapter. It got harder and harder to write it, then I stopped. After that I just needed some time to get back to it.

I have to leave Harmony House.

The sound of rain is like small pebbles thrown against the window as I put  my stuff into my backpack. I am trying not to make any noise, even though it's one o'clock in the morning and I'm sure everyone's  asleep and the rain disguises my movements.

Although they know why I'm here, Virginia and Liza have been very nice to me, and Sabrina pretends to be nice. Miss Kentall has let me carry out my duties at my own pace and gave me enough time off to let me visit Webster Avenue, where Louis Tomlinson is living with his aunt. She showed  me how she wanted the beds made, crisp and tight, the proper use of the vacuum cleaner (as if I had never seen one before) and how much soap and bleach to use in the washing machine.

I have tried to call my mother twice, as Miss Kentall stood beside me, but there was no answer. „Send her a postcard,“ Miss Kentall suggested. That's what I did. I wrote down that I was having a good time staying with Martha and George and hoped she and Des were fine and that I would be in touch soon. I signed it, _Lots of love,_ with x's and o's.

After my chores were finished in the morning, I was free until dinnertime, when I helped Mrs. Plimpton in the kitchen. The rest of the time I spent on Webster Avenue. I'd take my backpack, which contained two Oreos, a can of Classic Coke, and ham sandwiches that Mrs. Plimpton prepared for me.

On my first visit to Webster Avenue, I noticed a big weeping willow tree across the street from Louis' aunt's house, which I recognized from television. The tree is so big and old that the branches reach down to the lawn like a giant green mushroom. The size of the crowd surprised me. Television vans. Newscasters and reporters were talking into microphones and cameras. Teenagers paraded on the sidewalk, holding up signs saying _WE LUV U, LOUIS_ ,  while others carried no signs but their faces were grim as they began pushing and shoving the sign carriers. A man in an Indiana Jones kind of hat called for everybody to be quiet for the noontime news and the crowd fell silent, pulling back, as if part of a scene in a movie or on television, which is exactly what we were. A car filled with more teenagers roared down the street, and a cop stepped out and halted the car as if the street were not public anymore but belonged to the newspeople.

The sun beat fiercely down, dizzyingly, and my head began to feel weightless. Nobody paid any attention to me, so I pushed aside the branches and stepped inside the weeping willow tree, like entering a cool cave in another world. The sounds of the street became mute and far away. After a while, I pulled aside the drooping strands and peered outside.

Louis' aunt's house is an ordinary cottage with white curtains and dark green shutters against the white exterior gleaming in the sunlight. I saw no car in the driveway. My eyes searched the windows, hoping that he might be looking out, but of course he wasn't. Louis Tomlinson was probably reading a book, waiting patiently for everyone to go away, I thought how strange it was that he had been a prisoner in a kind of jail for three years and how he is still a prisoner and not free at all, although he has served his sentence.

My hiding place in the tree became hot and stuffy after a while, and  I stepped out to see the television vans driving away. People also began to disperse, and only a few stragglers remained. I stood apart from the others, concentrating on the house, hoping that he would look out at this particular minute and spot me across the street and remember me from that day on the railroad tracks, even though it was almost four years ago and  I was just a kid. Yet, except for my body developing, I am not much different. My face is the same and my hair is still curly and as long as it used to be.

A young reporter, notebook in hand, showed up and began interviewing people, jotting down their comments, the tip of his tongue visible in the corner of his mouth. I stayed out of his way and did not make eye contact with him.

My other visits brought on lonesome feelings as I stood among the media people and the teenagers and senior citizens, both young and old, with time to kill, the kids on vacation from school and the old people probably glad to get away from their television sets for a change. Louis' house always stood silent, with no signs of life, and I wondered if Louis Tomlinson was really inside or off somewhere laughing at us when he watches the news on television or reads _Wickburg Telegram._

The other day I spotted the young reporter getting out of a car and I stepped inside the weeping willow. I waited awhile and then spread the branches apart looking out. Narrowing my eyes in concentration, I saw a movement at the second-floor window, a flash of light or a reflection, and my breath fluttered in my chest. I spread the willow branches wider and focused on the window, as if I could send my thoughts through the hot afternoon air – _it's me, Harry, who you saw near the railroad tracks –_ and the lace curtain moved a bit as if disturbed by a small breeze or a hand that had touched it. A sweet shiver went through my bones, and I stepped out of the tree and raised my head, offering my face to him, ignoring the other people on the sidewalk. Did the curtain in the window move again or was this my imagination, my longing for it to happen making my eyes deceive me?

„You're here again.“

The voice startled me, and I turned to confront the young reporter.

„My name is Logan Packer,“ he said. „I'm with the _Wickburg Telegram_ , doing a feature on the Louis Tomlinson story.“ He held up his notebook as if offering some kind of proof. A camera dangled on his chest. He is a few years older than I am, freckles across his nose and cheeks and a wisp of a musttache that he's probably growing to make himself look older. „Mind if I ask you a few questions?“

Glancing back at the house, I wondered if Louis was watching me, thinking that I was betraying him to this reporter.

„What's your name?“ he asked, getting ready to write in his notebook.

I shook my head.

„I prefer to remain anonymous,“ I said, proud of coming up with that particular answer. „I also prefer not to answer any questions.“ _Prefer,_ a word with a lot of class.

„I won't quote you,“ he said, slipping  the notebook into his jacket pocket. „But I would like to find out why you come here every day.“  


He kept asking questions, like: Do you live in Wickburg? How old are you? Where do you go to school? Stuff like that. I didn't answer. Only smiled. His eyes kept moving over me, and I knew that he was not interested in my answers after all.

Finally: „You're beautiful. Know that?“

Getting to the point.

„Mind if I take your picture?“

My first instinct was to say no, but I realized that maybe this was what I needed. To be noticed, to set myself apart from the other people on the sidewalk. Maybe if Louis saw my picture in the paper, he would remember that day at the railroad tracks.

„Okay,“ I said. „My picture. But not my name.“

„Mr. Anonymous,“ he said, posing me before the weeping willow and adjusting his camera. He did not ask me to smile but started shooting away, murmuring, „Good“ and „Beautiful“ and „Just one more.“ I was aware of people looking at me but I kept my eyes on the camera.

„Have you ever met Louis Tomlinson?“

He asked the question so casually as the camera clicked that I said, „Once.“ Before realizing I had answered.

„When was that?“ he asked.

He must have seen the anger in my eyes.

„I really am sorry,“ he said. „But I have to get a story. My job depends on it. Louis Tomlinson is a mysterious guy and I'm trying to fill in the blank spaces.“

„Why don't you leave him alone?“ I said. „He's paid his dept to society.“ Repeating a phrase I heard on the radio.

Logan Packer beckoned me away from the others, and we strolled down the street. Speaking confidentially, tilting his head toward me, he said, „There are rumors. That he maybe killed other people. Two young girls...“

I thought of Louis Tomlinson and that shy smile and the way he protected me from those bikers.

„That's crazy.“

„Maybe. Actually, there's no proof at all. Only suspisions. That's why they're keeping him under surveillance...“

Glancing up the street, I saw only the usual observers, teenagers and old people. Even the media vans and cars were gone for the moment.

„Are you making all this up?“ I ask, thinking he was only trying to impress me.

„Come with me,“ he said. I followed him, curious about what he might know about Louis.

At the corner of Webster Avenue and Adams Street, he said, „Don't look now, but there's a brown van down the street. Nondescript, beat-up looking. A surveillance van, the cops. They keep changing their location but keep tabs on him.“

As we turned back toward Louis' house, I glanced quickly down the street and saw the van, ugly in color and appearance.

„I don't believe Louis Tomlinson killed any girls,“ I said.

„He killed his mother and stepfather. Once a killer, always a killer.“ Then, looking at me: „At least, that's what some people say.“ A kind of apology in his voice.

„He was a victim of child abuse,“ I said. „That's why he did it.“

Logan Packer shrugged. „I've got to get back to the paper. Will you be here tomorrow?“

„Maybe,“ I said. But knowing that I would be back, all right, because my fixation was still strong inside me.

 

* * *

 

But now I'm leaving Harmony House and maybe Wickburg and maybe going back home and giving up my fixation. First of all, most of my money is gone. I returned from Webster Avenue two days ago to find that Richard White's wallet was missing. I only keep a few dollars with me when I go out, and I'd left the wallet in the drawer of the night table. My door had been locked. But it has an old-fashioned keyhole that requires a simple key. I decided not to say anything about the theft because I didn't want to cause trouble and make accusations that would probably backfire on me, although I was sure that Sabrina had stolen the wallet.

Sabrina has been my enemy ever since I arrived at Harmony House. We were going downstairs for dinner one evening and I suddenly found myself falling, thrown off balance, clutching frantically at the banister, feeling awkward and stupid. I thought my foot had somehow become entangled with Sabrina's, until she said, „Sorry,“ and continued on her way with a wicked smile at me over her shoulder.

Virginia, who'd been standing down bellow, took me aside after dinner that evening. „Watch out for Sabrina,“ she said. „She's jealous, thinks Miss Kentall likes you better. Miss Kentall gives her the run of the place. So be careful ...“

One afternoon, I opened my backpack in the weeping willow tree and instead of sandwiches found garbage wrapped up in wax paper and a note that said, _You're not wanted at Harmony House._ When I got back from Webster Avenue, I slipped into Miss Kentall's office and checked the black leather register I signed the night I arrived. Sabrina's signature was there and her handwriting matched the writing on the note.

I was determined to keep living here at Harmony House as long as possible and not let Sabrina drive me away. I enjoyed living here. Nobody  gets drunk and nobody gets battered. The day my picture appeared in the newspaper, Virginia and Liza and Miss Kentall started clapping when I walked into the dining room, and even Sabrina joined in. Virginia pinned my picture on the bulletin board in the hallway. „Prettiest boy we ever had in this place,“ I overheard her saying to Miss Kentall.

But I have to leave before I get into big trouble. Tonight when I returned to my room after watching returns of _The Dick Van Dyke Show,_ I noticed that my bedspread had been rearranged, as if someone had taken it off and put it back on again. Was Sabrina still searching my room, looking for something to steal? I pulled back the bedspread blanket, and sheet, and found Miss Kentall's black leather register between the mattress and the boy spring. As I flipped through the pages, three twenty-dollar bills fell out, fluttering to the floor. I knew immediately what this was all about. The register and the money would be found missing tomorrow, and a search of the house would follow. They'd be found in my room and I'd be accused of theft. Sabrina's final touch.

I waited for everyone to be in their rooms and stole down the stairs to Miss Kentall's office. I replaced the register in the drawer, relieved to find the door unlocked. Then I returned and began to toss my belongings into my backpack.

Now I check the digital clock which tells me that it's 1:23 am.

I take the change from my pocket and count it. Seventy-eight cents. How far will nine dollars and seventy-eight cents take me?

Thinking of the missing wallet, I realize that poor Richard White will have to get a new driver's license and new credit cards. Maybe he's already done that. But the pictures of his daughter and his son are gone forever. I vow to write him a letter someday and apologize.

I blink: there are tears in my eyes.

I get mad at myself.

_Stop with the self-pity._

My mother always says, „As long as you've got your health and a new day is coming tomorrow, be thankful.“ Even if she had a black eye.

I have no black eyes.

I have almost ten dollars in my pocket.

I have my fixation on Louis Tomlinson.

And the rain has almost stopped.

Putting on my backpack, I whisper goodbye to the room and I am ready to go.

I will slip out of the house and make my way to Webster Avenue and say a silent goodnight to Louis Tomlinson. Who knows? Maybe he will still be awake and look out the window and see me and invite me in.

Who knows what wonderful things might be waiting for me?

 


	13. What Lies Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „I was literally singing to myself on my way home, after the killing. The tension, the desire to kill a woman had built up in such explosive proportions that when I finally pulled the trigger, all the pressures, all the tensions, all the hatred, had just vanished, dissipated, but only for a short time.“ – David Berkovitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hii guys, it's my birthday today :) wanted to update this chapter for y'all ... I hope everyone's having a good time, enjoy this short chapter, more will follow soon enough. Love you x

Alen Sheppard received the call at six-thirty-five in the morning.

He had been up half the night, coughing, a summertime cold that he could not shake, lingering for the past two weeks, low-grade fever and coughing spells that left him shaken and weary. Air-conditioning made it worse, as he went in and out of stores, from chilled places to the outside heat and then into the car, turning on the air-conditioning, producing more coughs and chills.

He stopped going to headquarters for a while, did not want to spread his cold around and, besides, the air-conditioning in the new building was always set on high, arctic breezes stirring the air.

Niall Horan kept in touch every day, reporting from the surveillance vehicle. Surveillance in this case was minimal, because electronic sweeping of the Forman house had been denied. The chief allowed limited use of the vehicle on adjacent streets, mostly to dislodge plainclothes officers to the scene. A  useless detail, the lieutenant knew, but a bit of activity to mark time until the monster made his move. Which was sure to come, although the chief and the district attorney disagreed.

„Indulge me,“ Lieutenant Sheppard had said.

„Okay,“ the chief replied, rewarding him for all those years on the job.

Horan'svoice had been excited when the picture of the boy, Mr. Anonymous, appeared in the newspaper. Especially that cryptic _once._ Which meant he had met Louis Tomlinson.

„Think we can use him?“ Horanasked.

The lieutenant contemplated the question.

„Find out more about him.“

Later that day, Horan reported that he was living at a home for pregnant girls. „But, get this, no relations. A runaway from New Hampshire. Sixteen years old. We could move in. Use him –„

„Let him be,“ said the old cop. „He's underage. Let's not place him in jeopardy. We'll follow the original desgin –„

A coughing spell obliterated Horan'ssigh of disappointment.

At last, the call came at six-thirty-five in the morning, bringing him sluggishly out of sleep. He heard the banging of waste barrels in the street as the rubbish collectors did their job.

„Horanhere. I know it's early.“ Apology in his voice. „Sorry, Lou.“

He responded with his usual morning ritual: coughing, clearing his throat, reaching for Kleenex.

„Go ahead,“ he croaked finally.

„He's on his way. Left his aunt's house twelve minutes ago –„

„Heading where?“

„West on Route Two, just like you said.“

Paused, sighing. „We still wait, right, Lieutenant?“

„Right,“ the old cop said, coughing.

Waiting had become a way of life.


End file.
